killian

Kevin Killian

Two Poems

All the Lovers

Outside the Disney Concert Hall, Kylie has summoned a clutch of cold models in white underwear, They clamber on white boxes pitching for the sky Somehow she appears in a dream sequence, Boys and girls kiss and poke and struggle for love In California, where the major candidates for governor and senator live the lavish lives of Roman emperors, Carly Fiorina, like Nero, bought a violin for everyone on her Christmas list, from Cremona, her wood golden and thin as hair, 81 per cent of voters don’t care how wealthy a candidate is You have to be rich to flourish What came first, the wifebeater or the social system that allowed ever and ever more flourish In the face of a liverish social despair all the lovers who have gone before they don’t compare to you Aphrodite Excited to read Gurlesque, the book, the concept, the package, I suppose one might well call it The Package, Well, that would be stupid, but let words fail me, Alerted by Juliana’s squib that the anthology took part in a register of social formation, with plenty of names she noted from the poetry factory, mine among them Oh dear, why didn’t she say what they were saying about me!           Book comes, there I am, ostensibly reading The Gurlesque and           admiring the depth and breadth of these women writing about their           pussy and Little Mermaid and jeans, but one part of my mind           frowning, wondering, but where’s Kevin in this.  Then came the           stopper.           —Oh here I am! In the one poem, by Tina Brown Celona, she describes a day in San Francisco that culminates in a reading by John Godfrey.  “Bill Berkson, Leslie Scalapino and Kevin Killian are in the audience.  Bill and Kevin ignore me but Leslie says hi.” That was where I was going when the call came Me the little friend of all the world.                    I was mortified to be so displayed in the pages of the hot new                    thing by showing only my cold side, my evil side you might say,                    and our beloved Leslie escapes by virtue of having said hi to                    Tina Brown Celona,                    Or is it even a cut at Leslie, it wasn’t like she gave Tina Brown                    Celona a ruby necklace or any poetry lessons.  But she said hi!                    That’s enough to save her immortal soul from obloquy. Crying in my social room, I weave and flip.  Dana Ward says, oh yes, I’ve met Tina Brown Celona, and she’s a good friend of Stephanie’s—or was— she’s said to be a fine person. “Fine!”  I shriek, spitting uncontrollably at Dana.  “And yet she ripped my heart out, girls all over the world will be reading her and taking me for an unreconstituted pig.” “Fine!”  I keep thinking of the many shades of the word “fine,” like, it’s fine to ruin a man’s life in the name of the female gurlesque.  It’s Always Fine Weather, with Frank Sinatra, Dan Dailey, Dolores Gray.  I would like to impose a fine on Tina Brown Celona, but in the name of free speech and the female gurlesque I stop myself— Just like the lemming who won’t let himself jump off that cliff. I say, if she’s such a fine person then where does the evil come in?  And light breaks, common sense says, the fault, dear readers, lies not in Tina Brown Celona but inside writing itself.  This all seemed so familiar, when I put aside my own hurt feelings. Presently I was, oh my goodness, you know what it is, this happened to us already in the New Narrative.  We were supposed to name names, take the high ground, gossip creating community, community leading to direct political action.  She just couldn’t stop herself, the syntax of the poem made her do it. Stephanie.  John Godfrey’s good tonight, isn’t he, Kevin? Kevin.  He’s OK. Stephanie.  Oh, I forgot to introduce this visiting female writer, Tina Brown Celona.  Please welcome her to San Francisco. Tina Brown.  How do you— All stand amazed as Kevin turns on his heel, 180 degrees, and pretends to take an interest in the strange serrated concrete walls of the Poetry Center’s multifaith room at the Unitarian Center, with its eight long banners displaying the eight great religions of the world. Always those banners flummox me.  I can tell the Jewish one because it has its stylized Star of David.  The others, I can’t tell them apart.  John Giorno pointed one out and said it was Taoism like that’s something everyone should know.  Bruce Boone asked, does one of them have a sickle in it?  “I think so,” I hedged.  “Well that’s Islam, Kevin.” Juliana says, “I actually don’t think Stephanie is friends with Tina Brown Celona, but maybe?”

     
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