So I wanted to read a brand new piece next
that I was working on.
I've been writing for years and my first book
came out when I was 40 from Soft Skull Press.
And the thing is, before you're--
it's funny because I had made friends
with Jonathan Williams, who was the last living Black Mountain
poet.
And he said to me, oh, yeah you're really happy now
but wait till you and your friends start publishing.
I was like, what is that supposed to mean?
And he said, well, when you're in your teens,
it's really lovely.
You're all having sex, blah, blah, blah.
Your 20s and then your 30s, there's community.
But when you hit 40, that's when people start publishing,
and that's when you all find out who's real
and who's just been a scumbag hiding all this time.
And I was like, oh, come on.
I don't really think that's going to happen.
Well, it did.
And it was bad.
Terrible things happened that I couldn't believe.
And I just didn't want to-- it was, like,
friends who I knew in Philadelphia who were
a little older some of them.
And mostly, you know, and--
I don't know.
I just can't tell you how disappointing
it is when people act badly.
But I didn't want to be angry about it anymore,
but I also kind of think forgiveness
is a little overrated.
And I'm a little tired of hearing about forgiveness
all the time.
But I wanted to forgive for my own health but in my own way.
So that's what this.
This is what this is.
So I'm going to read the ritual first
and then I'm going to read the resulting poem.
And the ritual is called, "You Don't
Have What It Takes To Be My Nemesis"
for Dorothea Lasky who also puts up with a lot of assholes.
"To the friend you thought was a friend
until they tried to sabotage a publishing opportunity.
To the one who ripped your book in half on stage
then wrote patronizing letters to the newspaper about how
you should be writing and the poets
you should be reading to become a real poet.
[LAUGHS]
To the creep who deleted your MP3
file because your reading was better than his.
There are others, lying, conniving,
envious sourpusses without the courage
to be loyal to the love of friends and shared ideas.
But finally to the worst of all, to the one
you love the most; your trusted collaborator, the one
who wreaked true havoc, the gifted sociopath,
the one you always dreaded, but they found you.
That one, the best liar you ever met
who took a machete to your life, their drama akin to opera.
Even still they are given the parting words,
"YOU DON'T HAVE WHAT IT TAKES."
Take notes about each of them for the poem,
their names are unimportant as such cowards are rarely
remembered.
Create a line of tiny photographs of their faces
on your computer, ALL IN A ROW, and then print it out;
this will be the rolling paper for a cigarette.
Cover their faces with equal amounts of the following dried
ingredients, fennel seeds, pine needles,
rose petals, mugwort, basil, white sage,
red sandalwood powder, perique tobacco, and marijuana.
These ingredients qualm negative thoughts,
shift gears for transformation, and also invoke
prophetic dreams, clairvoyance, happiness, honesty,
peace of mind, and marijuana because you
put up with a lot of shit and deserve to enjoy yourself!
Roll it up, keep track of which enemy
you are smoking, but smoke them all,
SMOKE THEM ALL, sucking their faces into your lungs
while writing notes for the poem,
notes about the ones who didn't have what it takes to beat you
down, the ones who never deserved your friendship
in the first place.
Exhaling their faces on a braid of smoke
is more satisfying than the usual forms of forgiveness.
Find your poem in the notes and utterly relish your day!"
So this is the resulting poem.
And it's titled "I Feel So Lonely When You Touch Me."
"Like most people, ghosts want listeners.
Inquiring gender of quaking tree in shade
rips your collar to pieces.
We meet ourselves whole at same time, order of the way some
will ruin themselves.
Gentleness thrust into a clean glass.
Ideate YES angling a wider indulgence.
You and your broken pencil write, it's a writing world,
but do get on with it.
Listen to blood of trees imbuing interest rate with sunshine,
suffering passed to a hired hand."