This is another genealogy poem-- in fact,
called the genealogist.
And I actually have been sending out--
what do you call them--
questionnaires to relatives, many of whom I don't know.
And I happened-- through a cousin,
who I knew something about, I happened upon a relative I'd
never heard of, a man in his 60s who's a painter who
lives in New York City.
And he's on sort of another side of the family.
He's on a maiden name side of the family.
And one of the things I'd been looking for, aside
from the facts, it was a little more romantic.
One of the questions I asked, if there's
any black sheep in the family-- any artists, any writers.
I wanted a little excitement aside
from the dull facts of born in bogus love, Russia in 1877,
or whatever.
And so I got this guy.
His name is Joe Wallens, and he lives
on West Street in the Village in New York City.
And I asked one of the questions--
just a dumb question-- do you have
any hobbies, or special interests,
or talents that occupy a large part of your spare time.
And he just wrote this wonderful letter,
and he says, "Other than my painting and sexual forays--"
[LAUGHTER]
--I am deeply involved in ecology."
[LAUGHTER]
It's great.
Anyways, that's my cousin Joe Wallens.
But he also told me about my Aunt Rose,
who tried to kill her children when they were teenagers.
And he mentioned my great-great-aunt, Sarah,
who we said was the center of the family at the time,
was a real crazy one.
He said she was the mistress of Herzl,
who was the founder of Zionism in Germany, when
she was about 16 years old.
So there's something in the past.
Anyways, the poem is not as good as the story,
but it's called "The Genealogist."
"When I open this carved stone and enter,
nothing can be otherwise.
The row of smelt hangs on the line across the yard
from sheets.
And through the steam, I watch an old woman clean the fish,
and a man sharpen the knives.
When I squint, I can see the stonemason
over his cunning tools.
From that solitude, he carves the image of water and clouds
and a hanged man, the clouds worn like bandages
over the restless eyes.
When I can't remember what I do with my days,
I see a pocked face, bent over a bench, mumbling,
'Because of us.'"