Live Nude Poems

Dejà vu? What happens to poetry when everybody is a poet? In a recent lecture that poses this question, Jed Rasula notes: The colleges and universities that offer graduate degrees in poetry employ about 1,800 faculty members to support the cause. But these are only 177 of the 458 institutions that teach creative writing. Taking those into account, the faculty dedicated to creative writing swells to more than 20,000. All these people must comply with the norms for faculty in those institutions, filing annual reports of their activities, in which the most important component is publication. With that in mind, I don’t need to spell out the truly exorbitant numbers involved. In a positive light, it has sanctioned a surfeit of small presses . . . to say nothing of all the Web-zines. What makes Rasula’s cautionary tale so sobering is that the sheer number of poets now plying their craft inevitably ensures moderation and safety. The national (or even transnational) demand for a certain

Yeah, I know. Kissing Tolstoy, a Brave Act Today the trees rustle like people in hell, every leaf a broad hair on Tolstoy's chin and lip You have a third-class ticket to the afterlife and the legend bends down for the buss. Tiptoe to reach him and remember all those lovely words sent to die in the ether when he goes or when you go. Tell Turgenev and Dos to back the fuck up. He's your man, Sonya and your grip on his short hair is tighter than comfort would normally allow but this is no ordinary marriage and after the kiss I look into your eyes and feel myself desiccate. The wind takes me east and west but never north I am air and wind and sun and rain all at once as I disappear into a wave of butterflies.

I'm close to catching up, I swear. John Wieners Advises Against the End I met John Wieners last night alive as you or me. On Joy Street the light backfired from windows screened and shut against the lean wind thrown up from Cambridge Street and the tea-house we had dinner in, me & John. I asked him about the Hotel Wentley poems and he gently brushed me off. I have new things now , he said, showed me a blank page with a ripped out newspaper snapshot of Marilyn Monroe. Can't you see it? he said. It's, well, it's not much but it's better than dying . We sat in his apartment after. You're so cynical , he said, hands flitting like a slowed-down hummingbird, like something that won't last another moment. I want some ice cream , he said. And watch out for your friend there . He motioned to my silent companion, Death. His poems don't suit you .

Third Wheel Blues Cockatrices in the bedroom! I told you that shit had to stop, no more calling animals in when your surfaces elude the mind. Some stars streak across the sky delivering bootylicious nuggets of light from years and years ago. I bet they saw the Stones in Boston. That night Keith shot up onstage, and they played Sister Morphine three times before anyone noticed. I fell in love with you late on an Aerosmith tour when Skid Row opened and Sebastian Bach challenged us all to smoke a little Mother Nature. Now you've broken the hymen of our time together with a strong hand and a rubber glove I feel as if I could unsay all those negatives and you would jump on my back for another ride, rolling our trousers and walking through the muck of the Duck Pond in the Common at three am when no one but homeless people are out and you feel free to crack jokes about the Dead Pool. It's a safe bet I still love you and the way

Guess what I was doing all day? Big Mutt Blues Don't want no Bichon Frise, no beagle howling too. My good German Shepherd, done flown the coop. I got no luck but bad luck, the damn Basset peed. 2000 bucks to buy a Pug? What the fuck is wrong with me?                 I want a dog, a big old mutt like you used to see,                 Shed like a mofo on my sofa, chase the kids off my street. Lost my John the Conqueror root, all the ladies say. just slide that big-eyed puppy over, they line up for days. Them hotties wearing Ugg boots, got nothing for me. 'less they get down with this big old clown, they just crowding my scene                 I want a dog, a big old mutt like you used to see,                 Shed like a mofo on my sofa, chase the kids off my street. At the end of the night now, stumbling home mad drunk, My woman meets me at the back door, calls me a little punk, I can't argue with her, that much is true, But I walk