And let's see, this one is called "The Smallest Town
Alive," and it's kind of about the moments, which
was now that moment.
"The smallest town alive has one sign, now entering,
now leaving.
You've passed through and won't come back.
Goodbye, your life was so many one horse stoplights swaying
on wires in a high wind.
A lone dog crossing the street at an angle.
A flurry of porches you won't remember.
On this one, I pose barefoot in a dress on the bottom step,
an ice chip on my tongue.
In my pocket, a glowing coal I am
trying to crush into a name."
This one is a Dorothy Parker poem on steroids.
And the Dorothy Parker poem goes, "Some men
break your heart in two.
Some men fawn and flatter.
Some men never look at you, and that cleans up the matter."
So I took that poem.
I loved cleans up, you know, like it's a dirty business.
And so I took that poem, and I sort of blew it up.
And so those Dorothy Parker lines or versions of them
blip in to this longer piece.
"The Matter."
"Some men carry you to bed with your boots on.
Some men say your name like a verbal tick.
Some men slap on an emotional surcharge
for every erotic encounter.
Some men are slightly mentally ill
and thinking of joining a gym.
Some men have moved on and can't be seduced even in the dream
bars where you meet them.
Some men who were younger are now the age you were then.
Some men aren't content with mere breakage,
they've got to burn you to the ground.
Some men you've reduced to ashes are finally
dusting themselves off.
Some men are made of fiberglass.
Some men have deep holes drilled in by a war.
You can't fill them.
Some men are delicate and torn.
Some men will steal your bracelet
if you let them spend the night.
Some men will want to fuck your poems,
and instead, they will find you.
Some men will say I'd like to see how you look when you come
and then hail a cab.
Some men are a list of ingredients with no recipe.
Some men never see you.
Some men will blindfold you during sex then, secretly
put on high heels.
Some men will try on your black fishnet stockings
in a hotel in Rome, or Saran wrap you
to a bedpost in New Orleans.
Some of these men will be worth trying to keep.
Some men will write obtuse, condescending reviews
of your work, making you remember these lines by Frank
O'Hara, 'I cannot possibly think of you other than you are
the assassin of my orchards.'
Some men, let's face it, really are too small.
Some men are too large, but it's not usually a deal breaker.
Some men don't have one at all.
Some men will slap you in a way you'll like.
Some men will want to crawl inside you to die.
Some men never clean up the matter.
Some men hand you their hearts like leaflets.
And some men's hearts seem to circle forever.
You catch sight of them on clear nights bright, dark, bright
dots among the stars and wait for their orbits
to decay, for them to fall to Earth."