the last time (two years later)

another version of this poem lives here.

the last time
(requiem for Alexander Solzhenitsin)

prelude:

I suppose one day we will be lovers

and none of these things will have mattered.

or

I suppose one day we will no longer want to be lovers

and none of these things will have mattered.

part 1:

The last time
is ten cherries in a bag,
smelling her on my hands
the whole way home.

I grab a soda,
they ask:

“what country did you get?”

staring at the same curvy mirrors
she chose not to install:

They ask why I didn’t bring her,
I ask: “did you get those mirrors at – ?”

part 2:

The Tao is falling apart
as she tells me:

“You have camel eyes, beautiful camel eyes”

reflecting back the image of her crying
as we made love:

“I can’t, I can’t, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

I ask:

“Do you want to talk about it?”

not until we’ve discussed Kurosawa and
seen how many ways we fall short of the truth.

And all this time in bed

is permeated with the smell of clocks

.esrever ni gninnur

part 3:

Mascara smudged raccoon eyes -
all sex, beauty and Madness.
I see her in that moment,
wild and free and
fractured and lost:

“I want to fall in love with you.”
“I don’t know who I am.”
“I feel all alone.”

We talk around these things, saying nothing, and
I stare at the ceiling, focusing on a point that
doesn’t move. We find our way back
into our clothes:

“I don’t want you to go”

but gravity always wins.

part 4:

She gives me cherries to take with me.
I count, searching for a sign;
there are only ten.

We leave in separate directions:
me east, her west, both headed north,
one short of a prime number.

I found it the next night; her
text arrived at 8:27pm, telling
me that Solzhenitsin died today.

summer reading list

summer is famous for reading, and mine officially begins when my yin and i reach North Carolina in less than two weeks time. through some sublimely bizarre confluence of events, our arrival coincides not only with Father's Day, but with the official start of summer. we're going to be there eight weeks before moving on to visit friends and family in New York, and in honor of our time there i've fabricated an informal, incomplete syllabus:

Week 1:
Jacques Lacan's Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis

Lacan, besides being a dead Frenchman, is also the author of one of my all-time favorite sentences and is renowned worldwide as one of the most difficult to understand men in an already difficult to understand field and culture.

Week 2:
Slavoj Žižek's The Sublime Object of Ideology

i first learned of Zizek from a friend of mine in her bedroom. unbeknownst to either of us, that particular incarnation of our relationship was mere inches from its dissolution, and we watched a documentary on this mad Slovenian on (probably) a Saturday night in (definitely) Fort Lauderdale.

Week 3:
Kaja Silverman's The Threshold of the Visible World

rounding out the Lacanian contingent is Kaja Silverman who, unfortunately, is not related to Sarah. i learned of this particular Silverman from my thesis advisor, and as far as i can tell this book is about looking, desire and anxiety, two subjects with which i'm quite familiar.

Week 4:
Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed

Ms. Gilbert seems a reasonable way to celebrate the midpoint of summer, especially considering the subject of her first book, Eustace Conway, lives just minutes from my father. in one of those strange quirks of fate, my dad and brother held palaver with "the last American man" about the same time that i was becoming familiar with Gilbert's immensely pleasurable, albeit somewhat problematic, Eat, Pray, Love.

Week 5:
Guy Debord's Society of the Spectacle

the Situationist International is undoubtedly one of the most interesting groups that came to prominence during the turmoil of the Sixties, providing cogent critiques of capitalism as well as coming up with kickass terms like Debord's "psychogeography." the group's influence on the Paris uprisings of May 1968 are enough to provoke mist-eyed nostalgia in even the most cynical former and would-be revolutionaries.

Week 6:
René Viénet's Enragés & Situationists in the Occupation Movement

building on Debord's theoretical work comes this memoir from Viénet which, if nothing else, promises to provide a counter-balance to Gilbert's presumably sentimental book from two weeks earlier. i'm totally unfamiliar with this text, but it has some nifty cartoons as well as amazing photographic images from May of '68.

Week 7:
Susan Sontag's On Photography

this is one of those books i've been meaning to check out forever because it seems to be referenced in virtually everything i've read for the past six months. furthermore, i watched a documentary on Annie Leibovitz about a year ago and the idea of one of the world's most famous photographers being involved with one of the world's foremost scholars on photography captured my imagination in some way i can't quite explain. it would be like Roger Ebert dating Julia Roberts, except not really at all.

Week 8:
Jorge Luis Borges' Collected Fictions

i've loved Borges since my second year of college, when i had a mad graduate student named Hasan Malik for my "Intro to Fiction" class at Chapel Hill. this man (Malik, not Borges) is responsible more than anyone else for my love of difficult books. he would pace and curse and sweat and spit through each and every class, convincing a room full of nineteen year-olds (or at least me) that literature could be just as exciting as punk rock. one of the stories we read in Malik's class was Borges' "Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote" which remains one of the most brilliant, absurd short stories i've ever read, no offense to Donald Barthelme.

(an analytic afterthought)

after giving my reading list the once over, i'm pleased to see that half of the authors (Zizek, Silverman, Gilbert, Viénet) listed are still alive, and only three are Americans (Sontag, Gilbert, Silverman). interestingly the three Americans are also the three female authors, and i'm not sure if this says something about the relationship between gender and translation, gender and authorship, or merely a side effect of my own taste and proclivities.

there are also some missing items from this list, books that i plan to read intermittently and as needed. these include: Rohit Mehta's translation of Patanjali's Yoga Sutras, Charles Baudelaire's Fleurs du mal, John Cage's Silence, D.T. Suzuki's Manual of Zen Buddhism, and Osho's The Buddha Said...

all these books are equally obtuse and poetic, written exclusively by male authors equally dead. fortunately, there is only one power-crazed bioterrorist guru on the list (Osho), and i feel his presence is admirably offset by the inclusion of an opium addicted harbinger of modernity (Baudelaire). i'm sure others that will sneak there way in over summer, and my plan is to provide miniature book reports as the summer progresses. with this in mind, please post your suggestions or send an email to:

circlesallthewaydown@gmail.com

many thanks, as ever...

ghosts (the Dancer, the Russian, the One that got away)

trying to write her was like Manhattan
busy, bothered,

jerking subway

starts on the A train local
as you cross that invisible line
and leave 116th street station.
saying goodbye to:

the Poet.

and

the Junkie.

and

the Drunkard.

headed uptown
to sweaty August nights,
181st and Fort Washington
with the Dominicans dancing
in the shadow of the George Washington
and the salsa drifting up from the streets
and everything i own in a duffel bag.

i was trying to write her like Manhattan,
but she's more like Paris—
lazy, jet-lagged mornings,
sleeping in with the shutters closed
and a strong dollar buying pan au chocolat and wine,
taking trains from the hills of Montmartre
to Le Select and Champs-Élysées.

chasing:

the Spaniard.

and

the Writer.

and

the shadow of the Guillotine.

but this isn't about

her,

the one i should write like Paris.

or her,

the one i wrote like Manhattan.

or her,

the one i loved in New York and lost in Meudon.

apparently,

this time last year i was
procrastinating
and writing
things
like:

Memories
(Dia de playa)

I saw a glimpse of heaven
up the skirt of a second story balcony,

but it was only a memory:

a Polaroid couple at the shore, the hand
of a photographer left alone.

Romance dies; art
inevitably follows.

We stood in front of a mirror pocked and punctured,
watching our reflection deteriorate and
give way to what lie ahead.

We took a picture, like
the old man fifty years before, so
we would have something to hold onto.

[lapse]

I didn't cry until the next
morning, when I began
putting it down on
paper, and began
letting go; the
art we were
becoming
the art
this
is.

Dia de playa, a photograph by Patricio Reig

first thoughts on Wong Kar Wai's seventh film

thirteen months have passed since i watched 2046, and today we screened Wong Kar Wai's exquisite, approximate prequel In the Mood For Love. much as last September, the experience has left me muddled and quaking, and i find myself unable to shackle the image with the words at my command. a demonstration:

leitmotifs in celebration of Sino-cinema

dreaming of hallways in rack focus
i gazed through

(the blinds of memory, half-drawn)

a patchwork predicated on

the
present's
projection
of the presence
of past

predilection and perception.

beginning

pulling time into focus

(slippage)

(dilation)

pulling time into focus

end

repetition and mirrors,
hallways and telephones,
the rehearsed departure of
wedding bands and restraint,

(not my own)

curtains and mirrors,
light bulbs and longing,
the textured punctuality of
clocks casting shadows down the hall.

words not to use (re: last night)

a year ago (today) i met with Saylor about creating a chapbook. after he explained to me what it was, we set about brainstorming ideas for a series of poems i had written about an American girl with a Czech surname (who got away) and a Russian girl who's never been in love (except with an older woman).

many conversations followed, and the single, bizarre layout i initially envisioned morphed into a double volume of poem cycles. over the course of that time the American girl moved across the country (and grew closer). the Russian girl moved two towns closer (and grew further away). but all this is beside the point.

the point is that tomorrow i meet with Jache to administer the coup de grâce, and by summer's end the project will be in print.

the wedding gift

the wedding is over, and by this time the groom and his bride are on their way to Hawaii. but this is beside the point.

the point is i had no idea what i was going to get them until the night before the wedding, when i drove home from the rehearsal dinner, congratulating myself for not repeating the previous night's culinary indiscretion at the bachelor party. the gift went something like:

I.

I drove home last night thinking about
marriage, ceremony, and ritual,
commitment and obligation,
thinking about dharma.

I thought about the moment hidden in the pomp,
the moment obscured by circumstance:

the moment two becomes one.

I thought about impermanence,
how every thing that has a beginning
will surely have an end.

I thought about the real,
the eternal, the unchanging.

I thought about what I have to offer this union.

No one can give you anything
that you do not already have.

Not peace,
nor security,
nor wisdom,
nor wealth
is lacking.


II.

Then what is the meaning of this marriage?


Is it a dress?

(once worn)

Is it a ring?

(tarnished)

Is it a Saturday evening in May?

(raining)

Is it ‘til death do you part?

(death is not an ending)

My wish for you, S____,
My wish for you, N_____,

is that
on those
worn
tarnished
rainy
days
you

remember

love has no beginning,
love has no end.

(w)retching v. fetching

last night a thought occurred to me:

is it better to be a fetching wretch, or a retching fetch?

my initial reaction was that fetching wretch was the way to go, but my impulse was born of linguistic prejudice. it feels good in the mouth, something about the "g" sound's (near) elision with the "r," that beautiful silent "w" sandwiched in between.

and yet the whole matter became more complicated when i stopped to consider what i was saying. the implacable nature of wretchedness is a heavy burden to bear, especially when weighed against the passing discomfort of retching. perhaps i had it all wrong, for who would trade the pleasant deceit of vision for the unchanging divinity of sight?

"i think i need to think about this some more."

the response?

"yes, it sounds like that's exactly how you need to spend your time..."

taxi says what?

i'm about to go pick up Mardou (curbside) and take her to the airport. i'm pleasantly surprised because i didn't think i would get to see her this visit. but this is beside the point.

the point is that this time last year we weren't even speaking, and these are the things of which i have to remind myself (right now) to make it through these mid-afternoon malaise...

faith

i am learning, right now, what it means to practice faith.

it does not feel like i thought it would.

untitled

the taste of coffee,
black,
on the morning
of the first snow
in November.

the smell of rain
at midnight,
cool,
on the last day
of spring.

the pain of leaving
a woman you love,
beautiful,
as you say goodbye.

waiting to drown

two nights ago i dreamed i was on an ocean liner. i walked the decks, wearing a life preserver, and eventually found myself at the rear of the boat looking out over the edge at the sea below. i stepped up onto the railing and jumped.

i felt the cold rush of water pass my ears and, before the life preserver could pull me back to the surface, i pulled it up across my shoulders and over my head. it sat floating next to me while i calmly waited to drown. but this is beside the point.

the point is that the dreams are (slowly) beginning to return, and i still hold hope that they might somehow serve to relive this strain i am under.

(six) toeing the line

i went to work last night and a friend of mine told me her neighbor had deposited a polydactyl cat. this particular (beautiful) genetic aberration has 22 and a fetching feline tuxedo. but this is beside the point.

the point is that i would love to love this cat, and my living situation is about to change, but i'm not sure about the timing. timing seems to be so much of everything these days (it always is) and last night i called Mardou as i walked home from work. her grandma had died, and she had spent a frigid, miserable weekend in the Midwest. she said:

"i'm going to be in Florida this weekend."
- why?
"i'm a bridesmaid; it's my second job."
- oh...

and so we made plans (perhaps) to have chutney for breakfast Monday morning after she finishing holding court on Sunday night. one would think this is beside the point, but it's not, because:

Mardou is the one who taught me timing, two summers ago when it seemed as though the sky was sliced open and dumped stars on the earth below.

one last tries

Jache came over yesterday to discuss, with me, my confusion. he made a chart with words on it like the following: "poet, artist, yogi." he spoke of parallel lines, Ginsberg and bodhisattva. he told me that sometimes you have to create "one last try"

...but sometimes the universe creates it for you.

the things not read on misty Sunday mornings

...

the need for this experiment has ended

prelude

i wrote a poem on 29 November 2008 about taking a walk downtown; i called it "Wonderful prelude..." and later that afternoon i received a letter from a beautiful Russian telling me she didn't want to be with me any more. i had just written her a note and left it on the pillow where we had planned to rest our heads that night. her letter said that she still wanted to see me and i agreed.

before leaving to see her that night, i took a vow of celibacy until the dusk of the new moon of February 2009. (today). and thus the experiment began.


day 1

that night was one of the most amazing nights of my life, and i do not know if i have ever seen the magic so clearly as when we sat by the waterfront and a tour boat floated us in the canal. two hundred drunken tourists yelled in unison: "kiss her!"

but i did not kiss her and the moment passed us by.


month 1

the first month was the hardest, uncomfortable, restless, not even sure of what i was doing. i told:

Mardou, who once had a lover who did the same before meeting her.
my classmate, with whom i had a late summer parking lot flirtation.
my sister, who has rarely gone more than a week since i met her.
Jache, who does the same when his girlfriend is on her period.
my teacher, who had been telling me to do this since summer.
and (the one who is never mentioned but always there).

i told the beautiful Russian in her living room before we went to Art Basel. that night we walked in a room full of art, not touching any of it, and the moment passed us by.


the tipping point

i received a letter from Mardou on 22 December 2008 wishing me a happy birthday. my birthday was still more than a month away, but the gift was perfectly timed. it was a picture of her in front of a wall full of words in Jamaica.

that night i talked to the beautiful Russian and told her i was sick of not talking to her. i told her all the things i had been unable to tell Mardou the year before, swimming in the ocean at night, when i let the moment pass us by.


month two

the second month was the easiest, maintaining my vow in letter if not intent. i started teaching and had a full class load. i stayed busy. i turned 32 and was fed art, pizza and cauliflower in celebration. somehow i ended up with three birthday cards in my windowsill, not understanding how they got there or what they meant.

i didn't want any more moments to pass me by.


month three

the last month was the hardest. i felt strained and stretched. my teacher asked me if i had checked out on him, i didn't sleep well, i didn't eat well, i didn't write well. i felt trapped and panicked and full of doubt. i subjected myself to wild tales, the Fear, and mid-afternoon malaise.

i dreamt of La Cienega; i dreamt of Mardou; i dreamt of all the ones i had loved and the moments that passed me by.


the end

the end actually came a week earlier than i thought it would, and it wasn't what i had expected. i sat crying in a chair with my eyes closed in a house that wasn't mine, touching a place i had been only once, more than two years before.

the next day saw its own revelations and Saturday there was another one of those moments, when it all might have turned around and gone the other way, led me down a different path, a different life, a different fate, but i let it pass me by.

one cannot help but do his dharma.

there is no need to mourn the moments that pass us by;
nothing is resolved, nothing ever is.

we love,
we live,
we lose,
we die.

every heart is whole unto itself,
every moment is a requiem,
every art is a lie,
let us rejoice.

goddess of the hunt

my (ex)neighbor moved [was evicted] earlier this week and i no longer have to lock my door when i come home. it felt bittersweet watching her go; but i was sick of the stalking, the paranoia, the changing of locks, the standing out in the middle of the street with a hundred dollar bill, screaming "i got my own money now."

her apartment faced the courtyard and she always kept her blinds drawn wide open, asking for help, asking for someone to peek inside and see into her world. i remember when i first moved here, walking by and wondering about the sad, lonely woman whose living room tableaus provided such passing melancholies.

she asked every woman she ever saw me with (my roommate, my half-roommate, my ______), "what did you call me?" and they would provide startled answers or else walk away. she once traded Jache a painting for two cigarettes. a week later she asked:

"has he sold it yet?"
-what?
"has he sold the painting yet?"
-no, i don't no, i don't think so.
"well, tell him not to."

i changed her kitchen light bulb once and declined her invitations for movies and art galleries and Naples. i found her once angrily smoking in her doorway and she told me she had no food. i gave her a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter, and two weeks later a bottle of wine showed up on my door. i passed it along to a friend of mine, but a month later my (ex)neighbor came calling for a corkscrew. i told her i didn't have one and she went away, but i spent the rest of the night thinking that she must now know i never drank that bottle of wine...

and i began locking my door.

it is sad to watch the facades break and crumble, watch the masks pass away and reveal the sad souls of middle-aged women who were once beautiful and crazy - but are now only crazy.

a prayer for you all.

om shanti, om shanti, om shanti.

i dreamed last night of Mardou,

a dream stained by the strains of the (k)not i've tied myself into. in the dream we kept getting closer and closer to a moment that never even existed when we lived crosstown and wanting.

i woke just this side of safety, but this is beside the point.

the point is:

i've been asking each night for a dream to wipe clear this ambiguity.

do (not)

do not fall apart, do not break, do not listen to too much Exile on Main Street, do not feed emotions, do not forget to juggle, do not watch too many documentaries on the origins of the American space program, do not kiss, do not eat less than 60% raw foods, do not not meditate, do not conflate Raymond Williams' ideas concerning counter cultural social formations with the Romantic lurking inside, do not forget to submit the appropriate papers to the proper authorities before 18 February 2009, do not masturbate, do not do not, do not take yourself too seriously, do not stay up too late, do not have sex, do not get lost in the stories, do not rationalize, do not know just enough to be dangerous, do not get too Oedipal, do not commit additional metaphorical incest, do not recycle doppelganger themes from two summers ago, when i chanted, as if it was mantra:

"i did not touch the girl."

ah yes,

ah yes, the night before, dragging the drugged drunken man back to his door, enduring the wrist-rubbing advances of a stranger nearly run over, burning marshmallows, overcooked rice, the rolling of sushi, and ghost tales:

his brother met the dead Wisconsinite fisherman of yore and cleaned his house for one full summer (aged 16) and now, twenty-five years later, lips are still sealed shut.

and my dreams?

ah yes, the unwritten dreams of an Aquarian with Gemini rising...