Tags

Related Posts

Connect with Hannah

An Act of Seduction in the Twenty-First Century

Posted | 18 comments

After a while, you accept the construction as endless. You lose track of the weeks before it began, who you were back then and where you slept.

All 2 and 3 trains are running local on Sundays, or maybe it’s all the time; you no longer plan the minutia before buttoning your coat. Try sipping your coffee instead of gulping, just don’t breathe through your nose.

Today the massive gray dome on 96th Street that had been looming in the backdrop of your every third Red Eye and angry phonecall  for as long as you care to remember is surrounded by news reporters. The grand opening of efficiency: the new station you thought would never come. The Healthcare Bill passes and your poetry gets published. The sun wins the battle against the rain. You find your cynicism melting into sweat as you jog to boxing class. You find yourself craving the tips of tongues more than whiskey. Your skin is reborn and you’re lost, again.

***

I received some emails about my first National Poetry Month post. The general sentiment in the emails was “Tell me you won’t be posting only poetry all month.”

I think the fear of poetry is an epidemic. The fear of line breaks is a fear of the space between things. A fear of pauses, of real connection.

Female ejaculation
Line breaks
Bondage
Direct communication with other humans

These are just a few things that might improve your life if you let go of the fear.

But, yeah, I’ll post some prose now and again.  Prose poems, too,  like this old(er) one.

***

Writing advice I’ve received as of late:

“Prose before hoes.”

“You don’t kill the turtle, do you?  Writing advice to live by: don’t kill the turtle.”

***
I’m sending my heartbeats via telegram to Madison, WI.

***
In other news, drinking in moderation may be something I’m remotely capable of. I operate in extremes by nature but I’m trying to rewire, lest I blow a fuse before my 25th birthday.

Last night, I had my first glass of wine since my 40-day sobriety stint, over dinner at Gavroche in Chelsea with relatives from Israel I’d never met before. I was intent on arguing Israeli politics, but quickly learned we were on the same page of the menu, the one with buttery scallops and shrimp ratouille and other delightfully non-kosher indulgences.

 

***

I mentioned my compulsive chapbook purchases in my last post.

Right now, In the Eyes of a Dog by Kevin Pilkington is subletting space in my mind for an undisclosed length of time. When I read Pilkington’s poetry, my brain whispers “fuck” over and over. It makes me miss all kinds of things, like:

My stop on the subway
Blowing smoke rings
Living on the East Side
Oral sex
The smog circling around the moments when you almost fall in love.

***

A Type of Love Story
by Kevin Pilkington

You gave up on most things
over the years until you met
a woman whose legs just wouldn’t quit.
And when she slid into a pair of heels
her calves flared ever so slightly
as if to say: get down on your knees
and if you have a tongue in that mouth
of yours take it out and lick
until you are convinced this is the only
way home. And that’s exactly what happened.
You got down on your knees and licked
all the words you would never use onto
her legs, a type of love story only you
would ever want to read again.

An Act of Seduction in the Twenty-First Century
by Kevin Pilkington

You know as well as I
there is nothing more
than a piano between us.

So please rest your head
gently against my hip before
the moon burns a hole in my pocket.

If you close your eyes
perhaps you will see what I
did this morning at breakfast.

When I poured maple syrup
over a piece of French toast
it settled into a portrait of Christ.

Before I go any further you should
know this about me: I am
the kind of man who does not

believe in much of anything.
Now you will not be surprised
when I tell you what happened

next. I cut into it with my fork
and ate, just to feel what it is like
to chew on redemption.