Kendall Jenner: Self-Portrait (2)

Two Blue Summers

To see an affirmation              in this process           requires great strength—

            that cut-open souls          exposed to prying sky            veins visible path-ways

might become common wealth          have utility as aqua-ducts            even sewers

            but that presupposes agency,         knife-blade accuracy     viability of private

resources      who am I to say         that myself deconstructed       holds any interest?

            Perhaps the prosaic          nature of affect          is the bluest blue of all,     blue

folded into its own uselessness           like a blue wave collapsed           on a shore—

            yet there is a (strange!) sense      that one must continue, must        or else

life will denote nothing            and that, true though it might be      is intolerable—

            all this for Justine         I met, held, kissed         superb senselessness

that extends           through perceptions of reality         senseless, yet linked

            to shattered possibilities of sense          and to particulars        (faces, places, names)

which deliver illusions              of permanence that never was          never will be,

            ultimately “blue”       even when looking “up,” not down      the same—

Here is one way out—            to say the names          in that facticity

            see a different blue, “electric,”          not closed, undecided      open to mixture

dynamic Selfhood, sky as workable          most importantly        “present-minded”

            blue manifest as “Now”         blue breaths        movements       forward motions—

Justine need not be      Beatrice         “Blue Lady”     is enough    one head effaces

            another          I am hers, for now, in text          “blue text” is droll       making love

is droll too        drollery as a mode of fullness, acceptance—         “don’t stop believing”

            subjectivity need not self-annihilate        I can put two summers together     create

a third,     richer composite        perceptions do not have to burn       nor do we,    awash

            blue repose, reposed blue         all around, eager        intermingled          “boned”    

Chimes #17

Hypnotized by the wholesomeness of what had come before, I couldn’t relate to being cool. The group threw a party at my house— the larger one, on Harrison Avenue in Glenside. The lines were clearly drawn— it was my house, but it was their party. The night of the party, I felt misplaced. I was in, but in such a way that I was supposed to know the special coordinates of just how I was in, and also the coordinates of what I’d failed to achieve yet. If I was in all the way, which I was not, it would’ve been my party too. All these divisions and precisions, amidst ten and eleven-year-olds, left me with a feeling of weariness. I didn’t understand why a group like this had to be so structured, so sculpted, or why competition and backbiting had to be so fierce. Mythology bothered to attach itself to Harrison Avenue— one of the top kids, an ultimate arbiter of coolness, locked himself in the den bathroom, pissed at a flirtation which was developing. I stayed on the crest of the wave, playacting like everyone else. The drama coalesced in a series of heated confrontations, in both den spaces. I was there to register who was messing with who. Yet it wasn’t right. It was all hammed up nonsense about consolidating a pecking order, who had authority to say what to whom. A natural libertarian, I chafed against the Victorian constraints of social discipline and propriety being imposed. It was no way for an eleven-year-old who was free-spirited, punkish, not tethered to any masts, and unimpressed by tethered-to-the-mast lifestyles, to live. A comb disappeared permanently from the upstairs den bathroom. Another arbiter kid put on some of my father’s boxing equipment, and cracked a poster’s glass case. The dour portion of the Township, and the attendant School District, would soon find out a disappointing truth— I had no allegiance to staying in this particular ring. I would just as soon fly free, and not worry about the Machiavellian manipulations of a bunch of pre-adolescents, pumped full of illusions and primed by fanged parents. The sense that this party would or could be the highlight of my young life was pure tosh. The drifting away, here, Roberta notwithstanding, would be sweeter than the living through. Fare thee well. So: I saw through what I saw through, I couldn’t articulate it but I tried, and because I tried they called me a fool. I was a fool for caring and wanting to share and thinking that everything should be spoken out loud: real. I was a fool for being awkward when I should’ve been confident and confident when I should’ve been awkward. I kept trying to keep up for a while, I wore Benetton and Ton-Sur-Ton, I wore a blue and pink Swatch, I had more parties, but still it was all wrong, wrong for me, wrong to have my mouth forced shut by cool protocol, or any protocol at all. I was an artist, before I was an artist.

Kate at Midnight

Kate at midnight: a pain in my ass.
My confusion: our words of glass
silvered with streaks of moony scrape,
crack-smoke delusion; "I miss you"
texted like ticker-tape; "I'm lying"
phrases; innuendos, burned from Kate.
Dead mufflers line our Interstate.
Clouds are clueless metaphors, and
there is an oyster-pearl in silence:
we are at war. To quip is coitus:
I fuck her out of low-rent shyness,
in a dream-bed sodden with seaweed,
as though the Schuylkill spoke like
the Pacific, its surface silver spikes.

I always wait for Kate's next move,
& when it's finished I can light a
cigarette, stare off into space, peer
into the windows of distant buildings,
holding offices which probably have swivel
chairs, people who know more about
money than we do, but stay too busy
to do what we do, which is each other
on the phone, oh baby oh yes, jacked/
inbox full of what we jerk from text-
scapes, digital kisses— as we take our sex
to climax, what's seeded into Kate, next
to knowing her own tidal pull, is how we
move the Earth to make pearls of nothingness—

Something Solid: Miscellaneous Sonnets: Into the Dawn

 

If I had made it— vodka-rocked, summer-burnt—
from Moody’s Pub in Andersonville to her pad,
set in an obscure part of the Loop— the mystery
remains. Stacy had her own obscurity levels to
deal with— the filthy rich minister’s daughter
from Indiana, with a taste for avant-garde lit,
& blonde goddess to boot— who had fallen
in love with my first full-length. There they were,
covering the plush, green-toned flat symbolically,
as I imagine them— the good book & the good
book, the actual bible with the bible I had
penned for her. That, I believe, is the holy
dilemma I would’ve uncovered, maybe roughly,
in that flat. Not in her bed, I would guess—

despite the resemblance to women from my past,
I would’ve received the floor to sleep on. Leading
us off the cliff of the cross & the cross— the one
hung solemnly on her wall, about her childhood,
family, heritage, money— & the one borne in her
heart, which wanted to live as I had with Mary & Abby,
full sensory immersion in a series of present moments.
That’s the key to Stacy’s dilemma, universalizing
the night’s detritus, which would’ve been the same
had I accompanied her home or not. To unify body
& soul is the work of several long lifetimes.
The divided, L-shaped human race cannot conceive
of a reality in which the books are all good.
As a person part text, I held her all night, into the dawn.

Reservoir Dog Days

Reservoir pages have been erected for the following Adam Fieled original pages online: Jacket 40 Apparition Poems, Argotist Online Apps/Sonnets Great Works Apps, Hinge Online On Love, Jacket 31 Apps, Dusie Apps, Blazevox Beams, Nth Position debbie jaffe, No Tell Motel: Big Black Car, Jeffrey Side on When You Bit.. in Jacket 37, App 1613 on PFS Post. Cheers!

Dada Circus: Outlaw Playwrights: State College Pa: 9-24-98

(A man in black ambles slowly and deliberately onstage, possibly bearing roses. He seats himself in a chair at a table stage left. His name is James Douglas.)

J:        Everything’s a fight these days. We’ve got to fight evil! Fight racism! Free the Tibetan monks! Help the Bosnians with money, blood, sweat and tears! I see kids walking around today wearing army jackets from some thrift-store, and you know it doesn’t mean a thing to them. The kids aren’t fighting; it’s the Baby Boomers, that’s who’s at the heart of our modern malaise! They know damn well that they had it better than any generation in American history— no world wars and no AIDS. I, personally, identify with these kids today. But then, I’m young at heart. (violent knock at the door) Probably someone soliciting for some goddamned Mothers Against Drunk Driving— (James opens the door to find three men in nothing but boxer shorts— Elmer, Homer, and Omar)

E:      Are you James Douglas?

J:        Are you a homosexual?

E:      No sir— we are Elmer!

H:      Homer!

O:      And Omar!

E, H, O: (in unison) We’re a pseudo-quasi-ersatz-alterna-white-funk-Chili Pepper rip off band!

J:        Chili Pepper wha…?

E:      Could you please let us in, sir? We’re freezing.

J:        Why the hell should I let you hoodlums into my humble abode?

E:      Did you not hear us? We are Elmer!

H:      Homer!

J:        Alright, alright, come in. (they enter) Now what the hell are you doing here? I ain’t givin’ any money to no charity!

E:      We’re from the Society for the Humane Treatment of Overused Undergarments, and if you don’t clothe us, we’ll have to shampoo you (holding up Pert-Plus bottle).

O:      Have you ever witnessed an Oriental Shampoo attack? It isn’t pleasant.

(E, H, O form a circle around James, shampoo their hands)

J:        (nervously) Do you boys like paintings? I could give you one in lieu of clothes— I’m an artist too!

H:      Really?

O:      Far out? We can’t shampoo this guy! (the circle disperses)

J:        Alright, now get the hell outta here.

E:      We’re naked and it’s freezing— have you no compassion?

J:        No! I ain’t got no come, and I ain’t got no passion! (grabbing them) Now git! (slams shut the door) Y’ know, they say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. They’ll find clothes, and they’ll be stronger for having suffered. Just between you and me, I know this is some artsy-fartsy play. I know you’re watching me, and I don’t like it. It’s Orwellian. What do you want me to do, jumping jacks? (starts doing jumping jacks) Now this is character development! This is transformation! I am in the moment! I am playing the lines! I am playing the lines! (he stops) Alright, now I’ll sit here and wait. (violent knock at door). Probably another naked rock band…

(James opens the door to find a man in a Richard Nixon Halloween mask. We’ll call him Dick.)

D:      Trick or treat?

J:        Is it Halloween?

D:      No! It’s the 24^th anniversary of the first day of Watergate hearings! Long live Tricky Dick!

J:        Now here’s a real man! Alright, Dick, you can come in on one condition— you have to leave your mask on. Here, have a seat. (Dick sits) So, I was telling the audience earlier that the Baby Boomer generation is the source of our modern malaise— wouldn’t you agree?

D:      Let me contact Nixon for an answer.

J:        You can communicate with him?

D:      Yes, but it’s funny— he doesn’t want to talk about politics. After Nixon died he went into therapy— it’s done wonders for his self-esteem. He and Pat are even making love again.

J:        Without bodies?

D:      No; apparently they’ve taken to possessing Bill and Hillary in their intimate moments.

J:        I thought Hillary Clinton was frigid?

D:      She is. Hillary is a prostitute working the red-light district of Washington.

J:        Is she attractive?

D:      Richard says she looks like Nancy Reagan, but thinner.

J:        Can I ask you a personal question?

D:      What?

J:        Do you have any allegorical significance?

D:      No, I’m a cipher.

J:        Sorry to hear it.

D:      The pay’s good and I’m going to write a posthumous memoir.

J:        Will it sell?

D:      Richard’s BIG in purgatory.

J:        So the Catholics are right?

D:      No- in heaven that’s what they call New Jersey.

(Knock on door—James answers—Attractive middle-aged Anne Bancroft type)

J:        Who’re you? You better not try to sell me something!

C:      I’m Claire Avon and I’m sleeping with your son!

J:        Well then you better come right in and tell me all the juicy parts!

D:      Ha! Ha! Ha! It’s just like “The Graduate”! Richard loves that one! “Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson, Jesus loves you…”

J:        (cutting him off) That’s enough, Dick. Have a seat, Claire.

C:      There are no chairs.

J:        I didn’t say have a chair, Claire!

C:      (seating herself on the floor) Your son is ruining my life!

D:      Wait…I feel Richard coming…yes! He wants to say…Claire…your…you can’t say that, sir, you’re a President!

C:      (approaching Dick) You can communicate with spirits?

D:      Just Richard Nixon. Why do you think I’m so happy all the time?

J:        Alright, Claire, obviously you want me to help you, and you’re certainly well made up. In fact, I’m not sure where the makeup stops and you start.

C:      Your son is mad— he’s always kicking and punching and screaming and yelling!

J:        Then why don’t you have any bruises?

C:      He doesn’t hurt me— he just punches and kicks aimlessly, and in public places too. It’s embarrassing!

D:      So why don’t you leave him, and then you can…Mr. President!

C:      I can’t leave Andre…he’s the most considerate lover I’ve ever had!

(At this point, the action freezes. Elmer appears onstage again, still clad in boxers. He snaps his fingers and Claire, James, and Dick collapse. Elmer sits center stage, Indian style.)

E:      That scene was going downhill fast, and now here I am because the playwright wants to jar you. (Rising, bellowing) My friends are dead! The band is over! No more cocaine! No more groupies! No more amps that go to 11 and MTV Music Awards with Courtney Love! (he snaps his fingers)

(C, J, D rise to their former positions)

J:        (advancing to Claire) Well, why don’t you just…

(Elmer snaps— C, D, J collapse)

E:      I wonder if I could get these idiots to sing the Doors. (Addressing them) When I snap my fingers, you will all become Jim Morrison simultaneously. (He snaps his fingers)

(J, C, D rise, link arms, line dance, singing “Come on baby light my fire” twice— the third time, Elmer snaps his fingers and they collapse again.)

E:      It seems I have complete control over these people onstage— but how much control do I have over you? I want you all to laugh at me. Do it!...Do it! It’s just a game, right? I don’t care what you do. It’s every man for himself, cause this is war! Everything’s a fight these days, isn’t it? We’ve got to fight evil! Fight racism! Free the Tibetan monks!

(James rises indignantly)

J:        Now wait a minute, boy— those are my lines!

E:      You’re the only one allowed to fight evil?

J:        Wake Richard Nixon up, too.

E:      Richard Nixon can’t wake up. That’s what being Richard Nixon means!

J:        (attacking him) Why you little…

(Action freezes. Homer and Omar appear onstage, normally dressed. They snap their fingers and James and Elmer collapse.)

H:      When we die, the play’s over.

O:      Pretty existential, isn’t it?

H:      Not if you look at it metaphysically.

O:      Which means?

H:      We’re actors playing a scene. “Actor” is just a personalization of action, and everyone is performing an action at all times.

O:      Even Richard Nixon?

H:      No— we’re talking about the living.

O:      What about a Republican like George Bush?

H:      Again, no— we’re talking about the living.

O:      So what action is George Bush performing at all times?

H:      Masturbation.

O:      But aren’t the dead, just by not living, performing a sort of negative action?

H:      Ask Keith Richards.

O:      We sound like we’re in a Tom Stoppard play.

H:      No, not a Tom Stoppard play, THE Tom Stoppard play.

O:      He’s only written one?

H:      Yes— the rest he just sort of threw up.

O:      That’s an action.

H:      Isn’t Tom Stoppard not an actor?

O:      That’s true.

H:      Affirmation— twenty-love!

O:      What?

H:      You called?

O:      Huh?

H:      We’re playing the question game.

O:      Explanation— twenty-all!

(Elmer rises, screams, charges between Homer and Omar)

E:      Plagiarizing! You’re plagiarizing!

H:      It’s in the script. (he pulls out a copy) Have a look.

E:      It’s a sham! It’s a travesty of a mockery of a mockery of a sham!

O:      That’s plagiarized too.

E:      At least he’s honest.

O:      Me?

E:      No, the playwright.

H:      Oh— him.

O:      Are we honest?

E:      Who knows? There’s no plot in this piece and no character development. It’s DADA— we’re not really anything.

H:      That’s the playwright talking.

E:      I didn’t write the play.

O:      No one does.

H:      How Zen.

E:      Shall we meditate?

(Homer, Elmer, Omar line up at front of stage, close their eyes, assume lotus position. Dick rises.)

D:      You have no idea how uncomfortable it is in this mask. I don’t know why I accepted this role— I’m not even getting paid. I’ve spent half of this thing on my back, the other half singing “Light My Fire” and pretending to be a Republican psychic. I have some news for you, folks— there are no Republican psychics.

(Claire rises)

C:      And I get to be the Avon lady— real fuckin’ funny! I’ve had the stupidest lines in the whole script!

D:      That “considerate lover” bit?

C:      I cringed in rehearsal every time I read it. I asked them to edit it out.

D:      Are you fucking a teenager?

C:      I am a fucking teenager!

(James rises)

J:        Why are we all just standing around? This is a play, isn’t it? Whoever heard of a play where nothing happens?

C:      Well, look, they’re meditating.

J:        Is that really an action?

D:      We talked about this before, didn’t we?

C:      Someone did.

(J, D, C snap their fingers— E, H, O rise—E, H, O snap their fingers— J, D, C collapse)

E:      Do you get the feeling we’re not alone here?

H:      And why do we keep snapping our fingers?

O:      Remember— the other three.

E:      Oh, the other three— of course.

H:      We’re stagnating, guys.

O:      I bet they’re getting tired of the whole “stand up, collapse” bit.

E:      Now wait a minute! Obviously we’re here for a reason— they’ll be patient—

(scanning audience) won’t you?

H:      Dammit, I’ve got something in my boot!

O:      Does it hurt?

H:      He wants to know if it hurts…

(Elmer snaps his fingers—H, O collapse)

E:      I know in the script I’m supposed to commit suicide now. Just because this started as a comedy, you thought it would end one? Here’s a secret for you, folks— change is absolute. Change is the only Absolute in the Universe! This is LIVING THEATER— it doesn’t create a fantasy world for you to lose yourself in— it confronts you with life! Sure it’s pretentious, but it’s better than some sitcom, right? Isn’t art supposed to grab you by the balls? By the neck (screaming) By the throat? (Elmer clutches his neck, choking, collapsing)

END PLAY