I need to read just one -- one more poem.
As I said, much of this was written in a trip I made.
A trip to France.
I actually did a poetry reading the night
before I left Berkeley to fly off to Paris.
And the poet I read with--
and afterward-- we had drinks afterwards, and I said, well,
I'm flying to Paris tomorrow, and he--
took me by the shoulder and said "don't --
don't write any Paris poems."
You know which I understand the reasoning.
It's important to defend provincialism at all costs.
But I was like, oh, OK.
So I tried to follow his wishes.
This poem is called "Peoria."
[LAUGHTER]
"Peoria!!!"
It's got lots of exclamation marks.
"Peoria.
With your unshaven boys smooching on the street corners
or talking on the phone while skating headlong
into tourists, who throng the ghosty avenues of Peoria.
With your grand soirees and jubilations
pushing out against the weight of history, Peoria,
capital of the 19th century.
With your cloud of excess signs and gold leaf settling
on the eyelids of black-haired women
glowing from the terrace cafes, which
line the stone banks of Kickapoo Creek, flowing like blue milk
under the famous bridges of Peoria.
And your swank manners and red suburbs, and no future,
and movies, where strangers swap philosophical gems
and fall at once into bed, never have
so few of all possible kisses involved me
as in Peoria, Midwestern city of lights.
And so off to glamorous Vernon city
of canals, five-step bridges with arcane graffiti
with its three million atavistic pigeons at the heart
of the jewel-box labyrinth and its ancient library
drooping languorously into the lagoon
a few inches per annum, bearing Tom Swift down to the dirges.
Vernon with its dead ends and narrow vistas and supermodels
in their sunglasses and autumn exile,
like the four figures in the mystical marriage of St.
Catherine, attributed to Parmigianino about whom see
'Self-portrait in a Convex Mirror'.
All of them torn from a glossy and glued to the abyss.
Everywhere at once I must be with you."
Thanks very much.
[APPLAUSE]