life rx 8 apr 24
poets are mean
the world, and a few stanzas from Nicanor Parra’s Poems and Antipoems:
“My position is this:
The poet is not true to his word
If he doesn't change the names of things.”
the aleatory
Poets are mean. They have to be. They are powerful. Nobody notices. They lie. They are envious. They will live forever. They love house parties. They steal girlfriends. They are total losers. They have stupid hats. They sing karaoke. They have too much to say about Proust. They are always sniffing something. They love the museum, and picnics. They can make anything sound final and cosmic. They can throw a handful of doves at your face and walk away. They know when you’re lying. Their only real emotional attachment is to the moon, small woodland creatures, and Hank Williams. They are tremendously good at softball; it’s because they’re good at not thinking. They would all love to be famous—if not in the world of men, in the world of rabbits or cement angels or the small town of ill repute where they were born. They engage in an irony of opposites, except when they don’t. There are rules for poets, which poets know before they even know how to speak, which they often can’t articulate for many years, if at all. They can age out of the business, exactly like ballerinas. Unless they don’t, in which case they go on writing about the stony islands and the goats and the honey and the glances until they are as old as stones, goats, honey. There is a certain kind of fact—for example, that figs are pollinated by the death of the wasp inside, that every fig is built around the body of a dead wasp—which makes poets lose their fucking minds. It rains diamonds on some moon of Jupiter—a poet is writing about it right now. These facts share some symmetry which you will recognize after studying poets long enough. The dad jokes of the cosmos. But if poets realize they have copied each other, they will pretend not to notice, like feuding sisters who ignore each other while holding their cigarettes at the exact same angle.
They all, very secretly, would love nothing more than to be jailed for the outrageous crime of being poets.
the assignment
Regard the next person you meet as a poet.
writing prompt
Change the names of things you hate. (Like, calling doing my taxes “the Macarena.”) Decide that something you don’t like to do is actually a poem.
a chune
“Dress Sexy at My Funeral,” Smog
This is exactly the kind of song that makes poets go OHHHHHH YEAHHHH! This is what poets are like inside their heads all the time. Right now there’s like eight goddamn poets blowing the roof off of their house with a shotgun because they love Bill Callahan, and they love this song. They know who they are. Happy belated birthday <3 A thought to investigate—does Bill Callahan get away with it because his voice is so low?
credits: small spells tarot deck by Rachel Howe
Poems and Antipoems by Nicanor Parra
Dongs of Sevotion by Smog
Dear diary, things are happening. I have started a new job. I have been slowly going blonde with the aid of good old-fashioned Sun In. (Well, technically John Freida Go Blonder, but I’m a poet; this is a great example of the kind of thing I might lie about … to anyone who isn’t you, diary.) For months, this has made me look fully insane. Brassy as a bad woman. Like your friend’s older sister who knows how to shoplift. Like, Katie Maloney on season two of Vanderpump Rules. But it’s starting to look really cool. Although the way I described it above, brassy sounds kind of fun. (That’s what poetry is really for: To make bad ideas sound like fun.) X S