I Kissed Frank O’Hara In 1959 (and I Liked It!)

Personism: A Manifesto

“Everything is in the poems, but at the risk of sounding like the poor wealthy man’s Allen Ginsberg I will write to you because I just heard that one of my fellow poets thinks that a poem of mine that can’t be got at one reading is because I was confused too. Now, come on. I don’t believe in god, so I don’t have to make elaborately sounded structures. I hate Vachel Lindsay, always have, I don’t even like rhythm, assonance, all that stuff. You just go on your nerve. If someone’s chasing you down the street with a knife you just run, you don’t turn around and shout, “Give it up! I was a track star for Mineola Prep.”
That’s for the writing poems part. As for their reception, suppose you’re in love and someone’s mistreating (mal aimé) you, you don’t say, “Hey, you can’t hurt me this way, I care!” you just let all the different bodies fall where they may, and they always do ‘flay after a few months. But that’s not why you fell in love in the first place, just to hang onto life, so you have to take your chances and try to avoid being logical. Pain always produces logic, which is very bad for you.

I’m not saying that I don’t have practically the most lofty ideas of anyone writing today, but what difference does that make? they’re just ideas. The only good thing about it is that when I get lofty enough I’ve stopped thinking and that’s when refreshment arrives.
But how can you really care if anybody gets it, or gets what it means, or if it improves them. Improves them for what? for death? Why hurry them along? Too many poets act like a middle-aged mother trying to get her kids to eat too much cooked meat, and potatoes with drippings (tears). I don’t give a damn whether eat or not. Forced feeding leads to excessive thinness (effete). Nobody should experience anything they don’t need to, if they don’t need poetry bully for them, I like the movies too. And all, only Whitman and Crane and Williams, of the American are better than the movies. As for measure and other technical apparatus, that’s just common sense: if you’re going to buy a of pants you want them to be tight enough so everyone will want to go to bed with you. There’s nothing metaphysical about it. Unless of course, you flatter yourself into thinking that what You’re experiencing is “yearning.”
Abstraction in poetry, which Allen recently commented on in It is, is intriguing. I think it appears mostly in the minute particu1ars where decision is necessary. Abstraction (in poetry, not in painting) involves personal removal by the poet. For instance, the decision involved in the choice between “the nostalgia of the infinite” and “the nostalgia for the infinite” defines an attitude toward degree of abstraction. The nostalgia of the infinite representing the greater degree of abstraction, removal, and negative capability (as in Keats and Mallarmé). Personism, a movement which I recently founded and which nobody yet knows about, interests me a great deal, being so totally opposed to this kind of abstract removal that it is verging on a true abstraction for the first time, really, in the history of poetry.

Personism is to Wallace Stevens what la poésie pure was to Béranger. Personism has nothing to do with philosophy, it’s all art. It does not have to do with personality or intimacy, far from it! But to give you a vague idea, one of its minimal aspects is to address itself to one person (other than the poet himself), thus evoking overtones of love without destroying love’s life-giving vulgarity, and sustaining the poet’s feelings towards the poem while preventing love from distracting him into feeling about the person. That’s part of personism. It was founded by me after lunch with LeRoi Jones on August 27, 1959, a day in which I was in love with someone (not Roi, by the way, a blond). I went back to work and wrote a poem for this person. While I was writing it I was realizing that if I wanted to I could use the telephone instead of writing the poem, and so Personism was born. It’s a very exciting movement which will undoubtedly have lots of adherents. It puts the poem squarely between the poet and the person, Lucky Pierre style, and the poem is correspondingly gratified. The poem is at last between two persons instead of two pages.”

I’m pregnant.

Most darling Nan,

I have some rather terrifyingly wonderful news to share with you. I’ll be poetically perfunctory, as it’s what I know best.

The hysteria of the body… A tenement spilling forth its contents into the streets of the Lower East Side… An involuntary refutation… Theory meets practice… Going  down in the vernacular… Thunder only happens when it’s raining… And of course, players only love you when they’re playing.

To summarize, I am mother-to-be, hear my roar of perfumery and vixenhood!

And I quote “I’ve made up my mind… I’m keeping my baby!” end quote!

I’m deleting everyone who says Maybe Attending to the bundle of jouissance’s shower event on Facebook!

Kisses,

Claudia

P.S. Fourth wave all the way – we need to resist the exploitation of and violence against non-government sanctioned bodies! Let’s revolutionize the corrupt academy! Viva la vida loca!

Fuck… I’m Dead

**Things Camille Paglia Has Noticed Are “Rotting and/or Festering Corpses”**

structuralism
post-structuralism
secular humanism
atheism
the humanities
Europe (the stench is emanating from France)
socialism
higher education
secondary education
primary education
art
art education
Andres Serrano
the left
America
corporate America
Ivy League deans
Hillary’s health care platform
kids these days
post-modernism
baby boomers
Democrats
poetry these days
New York Review of Books
Time Magazine
publishers these days
the academy since she graduated
journalism
Susan Faludi

**In Need of Reform Only**

capitalism

the Republican party

**Axis of Evil**

Derrida

Naomi Wolf

Gloria Steinem

Thunder Road

I’m at the library frantically whipping out another brick of analytic gold for my honours seminar 9000 word bundle-o-joie (“Who’s Your Dada And What Does Ze Do?: Re\Visiting Proto-Matriarchy and Materialism in Early Modernist Can(n)ons”) and have been holding in my precious canary-yellow fluids for over 74 minutes because (I thought wrongly that) I was on the brink of an academic breakthrough. We’ve all been there, amirite ladiez??

Finally, the pressure became too much to bear (Critical Intervention!). I proceeded to the little boy’s room and made a beeline for the urinal. Then that classic scenario ensued (you know where I’m going with this one, gentlemen). The one where you unzip and realize you may have made a slight miscalculation. A visit to the stall may have been warranted. Oops, I retained it again.

I looked around. No one in sight. I could totally make it to the stall and no one would think I was a freak. I grabbed at the door. Locked and occupied (gasp) by the world’s stealthiest shitfactory on legs. Excretion foiled! You win this time, constipation.

In the end, I opted to let out a semi-audible (and unfortunately, only semi-satisfying) and semi-moist fart simultaneously with my golden stream and made (tentative) plans to return in 3 hours when I’ve further developed my thesis and brought in some heavyweight backup.

Sweet relief! Only one question remains: What would my dear fairweather friend Daddy McDefecation think about all this?

(The answer’s obvious: he’d purse his bee-stung lips disapprovingly and silently reproach me for my gaseous indiscretion. Ay papi!)

All my luv,

Judith

P.S. As my aural companions Antony & The Johnsons are prone to saying, “for today I’m a boy”.

P.P.S. Would “Touching You, Touching Me: Canvasses, Text(ure)s, Genres, HerstoriCities” be a more workable title? Gosh, this is tuff stuff!

i don’t fight, i don’t argue.

Hi please listen to this song & love yourself.

wassupwitmeuask?

1. google targeted facebook advertising is trying to make go to rehab, i said no no no.

2. i finally saw top-hat girl. her absurdity tops the bitch in the floor-length fur coat, unicycle guy AND brenda dickson’s fox throw.

3. i committed a B&E at a hookah bar.

4. rejected the rules of gender and conformity.

5. found the #1 result for “sassy”:

6. listened to “california love” by 2pac many many times. watch over me from heaven, boi.

7. renewed my wedding vows in atlantic city. they’ve really cleaned it up since the last time Rick and I were there back in ‘86!

8. enjoyed this a little too much:

now my forehead’s all sticky! gross.

Eat it, lick it, snort it, fuck it!

Dear Diary,

A lot has happened since we were last intimate.

I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder by Dr. Meadows, which explains the hot flashes and intense sexual longing for penguins.
It was a real special day. When I went to get my Celexa, the hottie pharmacist named Gaston was on duty AND he said that there won’t be any drug interactions with the meds and my lil’ GHB habit! i promised to be a good girl and try not to fuck with that shit on school nights.
i also told him that we should hit skins sometime just for the hell of it and he blushed and said i was a whole lot of woman. this means it’s love!

No matter where I go, I’m always the biggest bitch in the room. the simple pleasures of life are definitely the most satisfying. it’s certainly empowering to take up space.
Yesterday Sharla’s pussycat, Booboo, took a dump in his water dish and then acted all imperious and disrespecting to me when I wouldn’t refill it, so I had to beat the shit out of him with my cane. it’s just a dumb critter, anyway. sometimes being a gimp comes in so handy! afterwards i told Sharla the neighbor’s dog got into an unprovoked fight with Booboo – i think this might be the final straw that gets her euthanized!

Moreover, this video makes me cry salty lagoon tears. It’s like someone cracked open a fucking can of anchovies on my sodden alabaster brow! see for yourself.

Not much else is new. Declan’s nona passed on. She lived a good life. Oh! and i discovered a cool new thing – it’s called RnB!

Love,

Roz

this time i kno its 4 real

the most pansy ass wastoids always sit beside me on the bus. this one girl talked about all the awesome drinking and blazing she and her housemates did all the way to kingston (and let me tell u, it was A LOT lol). she’s my shero, for sure. then this other *aulder womyn* had an epic cell phone conversation at 3am when we were almost there. i moaned real loud to signal my displeasure at being awoken from the most uncomfortable sleep of my life (well, not quite…), but she either didn’t get it or is way too huge a bitch to think of anyone other than herself and her stupid only friend who called her. what a huge coincidence that above-average annoying people always end up proximal to me especially given my almost superhuman tolerance for people’s foibles. maybe i’m projecting the hate.

NAH!

since then i didn’t do much. highlights of the week include: being sat next to by Why You Dress So Sexy Honey while she ate her toast super-daintily (one of my favourite ladies – always keeping it classy. some of us just can’t hold a candle), hearing New Yorker Girl’s [the magazine] voice, and brushing past The Bookish Friend on the street so we wouldn’t fall in a snow pile. i want to write some DIY porn plots about them soon. i also sang karaoke again i think i have chemical dependence.

yesterday i finishied recovering from a short’n’sweet 36 hour illness. no serious damage. i think i finally lost the brain cells that inform patterns of social interactions, though. it was like being in hell with tila tequila, only with no dykonic moments, less tickling and force-feedings of cake, and more pain around the temple. i keep imagining myself as a contestant on a dating show – it’s really upsetting because that means i’m a narcissistic psychopath who no one will ever love. i also worried about whether i would ever be capable of loving someone on a deeper level than really wanting to win some one-on-one time with them in a contest.

i realized that the only things in life i’ve enjoyed lately are completely incompatible with (restful) bed rest. see for yourself:

1) loud music

2) dance

3) smoking

4) drinking

5) Bisexual Bachelorettes

i’m relieved to return to my top 5. missed you! the only thing is, now i can’t use “food poisoning” as an excuse not to do anything or to garner sympathy. it was nice while it lasted. tha*k g*d th*t’s ov*r! f*ckin n*zi g*rms.

i’m trying to pinpoint at what point of the human life cycle birthdays become more work than they’re worth. maybe when you have to plan them yourself instead of your mom just hiring a magician (rabbit included!). now birthdays make me so anxious i get scared an ulcer will eat its way through my entire body and i’ll be one big colostomy bag. yesterday i didn’t attend 3 birthdays that i was maybe attending. but my mom made me return their presents to Toys R Us, so it all evened out. I know I’m breathing a sigh of relief, karma wise.

last night i dreamed i was in prospect park catching the subway but zoe got separated from me and on the other side of the platform she turned into a siege machine from Age of Empires but with the head of the triceratops from Barney. needless to say, it was quite the adventure getting back to manhattan. i either woke up or started dreaming about something else before the crisis had to actually get resolved. sorry Gregor! ur gross!

i hate hearing about other people’s dreams, though, so that was probably wasn’t very good for you. if not, i don’t know what to say. isn’t it kind of sad that you give a shit about other people’s dreams if you weren’t even in them?

in september 2007, donna summer was nominated for induction into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, but she didn’t make it. No More Tears, baby! you’re good enough for my Saturday morning 104.5 CHUM FM/’97 Bonnie N Clyde revival playlist.

p.s. i’m a window shopper. i’m just taking my time choosin between fiddy and lily is all.

p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s. joan of arc is a GENDER WARRIOR. you go, “girl”!

sat in yr lap

i can’t stop:

- WISHING STEVIE WONDER SANG ‘ISN’T SHE LOVELY’ AT MY BAT MITZVAH

- wakin up the neighbours by screaming “Oh! Oh! Oh!” in between biggie’s synth pulses

- hypothesizing about Selena 4 Prez ~ 2008 (if she weren’t dead)

- quoting Showdogs Moms & Dads even though people have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about, but they should because “WHAT IF IT WAS ONE OF THESE?????” kills me every time. they also don’t get why i keep saying “in my vagina 2 times he bite me”

- worrying that all my clients are sending me dirty text messages and marianna is reading them and blushing because i left my phone in her private room

- laughing at misdemeanour’s track called “Don’t Be Commin’ (In My Face)” – why the hate?

-reading user comments on youtube vidz. way too good.

i don’t know what this means, but it sounds like fun:

“Britney ! quero que voce saibaaa que eu te amo muito ! e amo Bomt tbm ! adoro seus trabalhos com Max Martin ! Amo seus cds ! e todos os fãs estao ansiciosos e aguardando suas surpresas e os proximos singles !
Te amooooo !”

ditto:

“BRITTTTT
MUIEH ARRETADAA
T AMUU úu
xD
2008 ARRAze úu
I lovee yoouu xD
NHA FALO EM PORTUGUES MESMO ÚU
heuheuuehu xD
*-*
EU AMO vc *-*

;*** “

ALL I KNOW IS THAT IT IS A CRIME THAT SHE HAS NOT BEEN HIRED AS A PORTE-PAROLE/SPOKES”MODEL” FOR STARBUCKS AND/OR RITE AID or EX-LAX ALREADY! SHEESH x 1,000,000!!!

F THAT

p.s. proof i still got it (a.k.a. sometimes i listen to legitimately good music for kicks):

tomorrow i’m filing mah taxes n trying to figure out how to make myself sleep on the night bus w/o pot or melatonin. see y’all at 4am.

baby, you grew up hard

yesterday i drank 2 bottles of wine, chilled in a loading dock, and had 4 deceptively potent shots of what will be called “Lemon Drink”. i also sang an Eternal Flame duet, which was #1 in Britain on the day I was born, and barfed all the way from Thornhill to Aurora. i’m pretty sure me and michelle were in a bathroom stall together at one point (drinking more? W-H-Y), but no nose powdering went down. the moral of the story is that contrary to popular belief, it IS possible to be too inebriated for karaoke.

some life lessons are just so hard to learn. like not mixing tequila and beer, thinking i can decide on a “getting dressed” playlist in under 5 minutes, staying away from vermouth, curing myself of the ridiculous notion that it is possible to have a good hair day without product…

while lying on the kitchen floor for a while convincing my family without too much trouble that i have substance abuse problems, i realized i had made it home without a coat or cellular phone. i also didn’t pay for the bus. impressive.

2day i went cross country skiing, ate the nastiest hamburger i have ever seen, and observed the spatial re-orientation of the Nottawasaga/Dufferin region towards a recreation economy. at Tim Horton’s – Caledon (Canada’s Safest Community!), my dad informed me that I still smelled like booze. in Creemore, which I’m pretty sure is where the real Lorelei Gilmore lives and does quaint $hit, he made the faux-pas of admitting out loud that it was a “touristy” town. sooooo embarassing!! we were totally blending in with “the locals” before you blew our cover as city slickers just passing through. thanks a lot, dad! now we have to skedaddle and won’t even have time to check out that antique shop called “Victorian Values” (seriously). oh well, we had Neil Diamond’s Greatest Hits (1966-1992) to console us.

later i had a very hot bath (luckily, my genitals did not get burnt – i recommend swaddling them in a facecloth, if anyone’s taking notes) and listened to glamorous songs from my “It’s so exciting being a lesbian!” playlist. i was too concerned with my alcohol acne & windburn to feel truly divine, however.

at easter dinner, my grandma noticed my nose stud for the first time, even though she’s seen it many times before. to be fair, she has a detached retina and is a malpractice victim. we talked about playmobil & beanie babies and good times. i have done no work this weekend, only answered polite questions about myself and recieved a wholesome hair cut. ~__^

p.s. “Last Christmas” is a good song at any time of the year.

p.p.s. Mommy, why did Biggie have to die?

She Got The Way To Move Me, Cherry

i took a break before posting because only losers spend more than 5 hours a day on the internet, so i had to play it cool. (haha, actually i just edited the time stamp)

today’s topic is Labels: are they really necessary?

HAHAHA JUST KIDDING.

the real topic is: why the hell should you feel guilty for stepping on bugs, throwing rocks at seagulls and driving Range Rovers? also: please stop being jealous of Al Gore’s house. Maybe Tipper didn’t want to downsize yet, okay? And on that note – LEAVE JANE FONDA ALONE!!

 also: lolcats are just not that good.

HAHA STILL KIDDING
BUT ACTUALLY, THEY ARE OVER.

YOU KNEW THAT, RIGHT?