It was a very hard decision to cancel my trip to AWP this year. “I’d Rather Break Your Heart: A Tribute to James Tate” was the first panel I ever proposed. Tate's my spirit animal—or rather, I’m Mickey Mouse to his Walt Disney. Our panel’s email discussions felt downright science-y—like we were identifying a hybrid midwestern mushroom-insect. My brain’s been inexorably altered by our discussions on the nature political poetry, authority, Buster Keaton, and Westworld.
Sitting on this news has been tough, but now I get to spill. My poem, “The Gift,” from Crushing It (Copper Canyon Press, fall 2020) will appear in The Best American Poetry 2020.
Thank you to the power of infinity: Ploughshares, Paisley Rekdal, Rigoberto González & David Lehman.
This poem surprised and even worried me a little. I’m very grateful for the reception.
Ploughshares, edited by Rigoberto González, Spring 2019
I found Birdcamp (and at the same time, a deep love for birds) when I lived in NYC. I still dream about walking in the door: the bright yellow walls, all the neon toys hanging from the ceiling like jungle vines, and the din of HELLO!s and BAWK!s and PEEP!s and RAWK!s.
Brian taught me EVERYTHING about birds, sometimes while trimming the nails of a giant scarlet macaw chewing on his shirt collar.
"Do birds need their beaks trimmed?" I asked.
"Not unless they've got a shitty diet. A bird could drop dead in your hand just from the stress of it, and I'm very, very good at it," he said, which I believed.
I asked him about cockatoos. "We don't sell 'em. They're far too intelligent and demanding. It'd be like having a super smart toddler with anger management issues that never matured and lived to be 100."
Roz lived around the corner from me (Hi, Roz!). I think I even dog sat her five (six?) Chihuahuas!
Sometimes I'd walk all the way up from 14th street just to hang out. I could never be sad there. It was heaven.
This puppy was originally published in Painted Bride Quarterly. Happy Thanksgiving, all you geezers out there. You know who you are.
***
After the meal, Sandy decided we should spice up charades
by slapping the loser’s butt with a ping-pong paddle.
Whenever Ed got slapped, he farted because he was so nervous.
The ladies won, slapped all the men’s butts, but then what to do?
“Take off your clothes!” I told Sean, who didn’t seem like the kind
of guy who’d do such a thing—but he was, and he did. Then Jim
took off his clothes. Then John. And then the other Jim
who brought all the lovely bottles of wine. And finally Ed.
Deb came out of the bathroom and saw five big men naked in the kitchen.
They screamed, “Take off your clothes!” We all figured she would,
and she did. Then Sandy the Slapmaster, then me, then Tomoko
who kept her glasses on. We walked around the house naked,
talking about how it was to be naked with other naked people,
how none of the guys had boners, and how cold it was out in the garage.
Somebody found a big bottle of vodka. We made a no-hugging rule.
John kept trying to open the curtains and show the neighbors
what they were missing. Deb thought an orgy was imminent,
but since we’d all spent a lot of time in Iowa, I didn’t think it would fly.
Jim passed out. Ed put a robe on. I passed out. We woke up
the next morning in t-shirts, ate bagels from Bagel Land, and said,
“We all got naked last night.” That afternoon, on our way
to the Walt Whitman Mall, the ladies gave each other nicknames
ending with the word “Bitch.” Deb was Stupid Bitch,
Sandy was Gentle Bitch, Tomoko was Fucking Bitch and I was Precious Bitch.
All the bitches agreed that slapping people’s butts with a paddle
was something we needed to do every weekend, that this was the best
Thanksgiving ever, and that Ed had the biggest dick we’d ever seen.
Michael Brockley wrote this in our "Summer Strange" online class for the "Hermit Crab" assignment—wherein your mind crawls into an established form and takes over—inspired by Lauren Haldeman's mirror poems. When I saw it, I HAWed hard, closed it, and opened it again because I couldn't believe what I was seeing.
I love how sadness and doubt creep into its formidably masculine, competitive structure. My fave: "Signs you grew up lonely." It found the perfect home in Misfit Docs at Queen Mob's Teahouse.
My partner is allergic to sentimentality, so I'm thrilled my ode to his unmushiness found a home at Zócalo Public Square, where I'm always awed by the writing. They make me feel smart. Thank you, Colette LaBouff!
Wowsers! I'm honored and thrilled to have my Golden State Killer poem up on The Kenyon Review. You can read it, or listen to me reading it with a cold, OR read why editor Natalie Shapiro picked it!
"...this poem does a masterful job of evoking the veneer of evenness that papers over the moment of panic, pivoting away from the subject of the killings to giggle at passé fashion and outmoded technology, unable, in the moment, to process the terror that has loomed for so long and now makes itself known."
Photo by Edward T. Bissell
“I love my funny poems, but I’d rather break your heart. And if I can do both in the same poem, that’s the best.” —James Tate, 1943-2015.
Five poets read and explore the work, life, and craft of James Tate, whose funny, heartbreaking, and chilling poems thwarted expectations of what poetry is and does. As Tate’s distinctive style made imitation impossible and even embarrassing, our panelist discuss the influence of one of America’s most celebrated surrealists on their widely diverse styles.
James Tate was the author of 18 books of poems; each defied expectations of poetry to create mystery, surprise, and feelings for which words don’t exist. Moderator Matthew Zapruder wrote of Tate’s newest book, Government Lake, released posthumously in 2019, “He was looking for the pure poetry after all the things that usually tell us we are reading poetry are gone.” Despite different styles, Tate’s work has inspires the diverse panelists to eschew imitation, and instead create risk and surprise.
With Matthew Zapruder, Nikki Wallschlaeger, Dorothea Lasky and Jaswinder Bolina.
9:00am - 10:15am on Thursday March 5, 2020
Room 217C, Henry B. González Convention Center, Meeting Room Level
Yesterday was the last day for the online class, “Writing Outside the Rut,” developed to inspire poets at all levels us to connect to their unconscious minds. Our group was Level 10 GGG (good, giving and game), and their poems blew my face off, like this one by MJ Santiago. The prompt was based on Lauren Haldeman’s mirror poems.
This was some risky writing. Thank you, group, for engaging in such an engaging way, and trusting me with your work. I hope you had as much fun as I did!
