Sixtieth Entry

Night One of the Grand Ball of Ashbery. It wasn't too bad, many of the readers were entertaining. The Polish poets, who seem to have a feverish love of Ashbery, read with thick accents and quiet intensity. Ron Padgett was great, as was Anne what's her face, the young one. I bet Amy that David Shapiro would talk for half an hour and surprise surprise! But, as I commented to reader Mark Bibbins afterwards "It's David's world, we just live in it." "It's David's world, Kenneth Koch just lives in it," he said. Then Amy and I and some friends went to the Cedar in order to avoid being confused with shmoozers at the Loup. Which of course we are, but it's important to avoid the impression being given. Now on to round two.

Here's my poem:

WAREWOLF

Heads made of destruction derby wreckage,
a pine branch snaps in the glen, aboard
a stealthy clipper I entertain
my crew, dancing the day away, holding
hands with the rough-skinned sailors, eyes
to the heavens, hearts in the water. Only
later are the bodies found below decks.
The highway blurs as the camera
sticking out of a speeding car
is clicked on by the crew, and behind
the lighting display, in a tarp-covered tent
my makeup is applied, hair glued, glue
painted, like the old masters in Europe
might have done, thick with color,
lousy with oil, canvas strecthed like
skin while it's young, expressing
something, being seen by people,
quietly walking through white rooms
looking at walls and talking about
how they understand it.