October 12, 2007
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foto by smith
this is a small love shack out back we’re staying in. the shower is in the kitchen between the fridge and the stove. this morning as lady got in the shower, i pulled up a kitchen chair in front of the glass shower door, grabbed some oatmeal cookies, sat down and said “o good, a free floor show.”
there’s no place here for lady to dress away from my hungry eyes. just now as she put her bra on i said ahhhhh, a tit and a mammary… but i don’t know which is which. “this is the tit, this the mammary” she said pointing left and right. thanks, i say, i always forget, that’s why i keep staring every time you’re naked, trying to figure it out.
told her i was blogging her boobs and she said, “nothing’s sacred.” that proves it, her mammaries are sacred. maybe i could get a cool cult client religion going worshiping her breasts
as lady said in her poem June:
Or in some place
where They
would worship
your breasts
build temples to them
twin towers
to capitalism
and the American Dream
i could charge our cult flock two/tenths tithing for the privilege of bowing before her breasts, three/tenths if one’s bared, four/tenths for two. have holy communion be a nine/tenths quick lick and a nipple nibble – sort of a boob lube. i could make a mold of her aureole area and sell it as sacred nips. perhaps reproduce one whole breast in hand-painted latex velvet as a mother mammary and/or face massage souvenir.
i tell you, you combine religious ecstasy with nude boobs, and you got serious possibilities.
on the ecstatic, last night’s poetry reading went well. here’s a video of us at
there’s no place here for lady to dress away from my hungry eyes. just now as she put her bra on i said ahhhhh, a tit and a mammary… but i don’t know which is which. “this is the tit, this the mammary” she said pointing left and right. thanks, i say, i always forget, that’s why i keep staring every time you’re naked, trying to figure it out.
told her i was blogging her boobs and she said, “nothing’s sacred.” that proves it, her mammaries are sacred. maybe i could get a cool cult client religion going worshiping her breasts
as lady said in her poem June:
Or in some place
where They
would worship
your breasts
build temples to them
twin towers
to capitalism
and the American Dream
i could charge our cult flock two/tenths tithing for the privilege of bowing before her breasts, three/tenths if one’s bared, four/tenths for two. have holy communion be a nine/tenths quick lick and a nipple nibble – sort of a boob lube. i could make a mold of her aureole area and sell it as sacred nips. perhaps reproduce one whole breast in hand-painted latex velvet as a mother mammary and/or face massage souvenir.
i tell you, you combine religious ecstasy with nude boobs, and you got serious possibilities.
on the ecstatic, last night’s poetry reading went well. here’s a video of us at The Literary Cafe‘s poetry site. (video is 31 minutes long, 33 poems). lady had 122 of her travel fotos projected over us as we read.
my video voice is gravelly. i went smokeless all day so i’d have my purer voice, but it went bad anyway due to being tired from travel, the pre-stress of performing, and the tail-end of my cold. one of these days i’ll have my never recorded deeper post-throat-cancer poetry voice – the voice i had in our london readings, the voice no one here home in cleveland has ever heard. maybe for our goodbye reading next month.
i’m so looking forward to our move december 1st – it will be nice to settle down in one town for a year or two, rest, work, reanalyze, decompress, document, experiment, represent to what extent evidence presents. time to start figuring out what been’s been, what is am, and what might be will be.
lady and i are also in this katie daley open mic production of My Dick: The Literary Cafe (10 minutes)
it’s odd seeing yourself perform. you immediately see obvious failings like looking down at the list of titles instead of out at the audience more, and passing the mic too quickly. still, it went well. i’m proud. learn and live livelier.
no nervousness at reading, but the inevitable daily dread overtook me. been reading poetry in public 25 years now. each reading i look eagerly towards, and yet each day of the reading i feel this stupid dread wondering why i even bothered setting up a reading cuz nobody’s going to come and even if they do they’re not going to want to hear what i have to say. then they call my name, i get up, and everything is fine. last few times having lady k right beside me at the mic has made it all feel easier. but we both get these poetry day dreads.
we had a full audience for our reading, and a half dozen of the major name poets showed up, so i felt validated. don’t get any money for art, poetry, writing, publishing, fotoing, so i have to turn to the respect of my peers for external validation of my worth.
is odd, i know my worth within myself as artist, poet, writer, etc, so outsiders saying yea or nay shouldn’t matter. but it does. i always get a small warm thrill when someone i respect shows offers respect in return.
what is the sound of one hand clapping?
patting yourself on the back.
this it is the it it is.
here’s one of lady’s poems from last night i especially like. actually, i especially like a lot of her poetry – more so than she seems to herself. once we settle in chicago, i’ll have to gather her words together for her and show her her goods worth. this one’s wonderful to hear as well as read.
MY LUSTING RIBS
I always got this thrill–
the idea of being Olive Oyl,
tied to a railroad track by Bluto
My pale skin, my
pulsing pulsing pulsing
So frail, so prone
a limp bird just waiting
for Popeye to untie me
But Ohhhhhhh, Popeye,
an ache filled with thrill
Rescue equally exciting
as to succumb to consumption,
the train cracking rack of
ribs on the track
foto by smith
