Category: artiste

The last of the LA poems (mine).

Published on by taylor mardis katzLeave a comment

“New scenery, new noise”

said Rimbaud. I slept
through the traffic. I’m so
spoiled I get humble then
romantic. I’ve never held
a gun but I’ll sit beside you
or behind and ride and ride
*
Cougar on wheels

The bike changes
gears automatically—
I’m fast I’m slower I’m
skidding a little in the sand
I’m a sea snake on land
*
Last Wednesday

“It’s like your name is
‘Taylor Katz comma poet’
she said across a burrito
as the rain decided on us
*
“Hello I love you won’t you tell me your name”

I’ll be your amulet,
baby
*
Lost Angeles

Goodbye hand sewn Barcelona
pouch with the three overlapping
stars. Goodbye mint chapstick
from the pack of three and the birthday
lipstick; goodbye pocket mirror with the red
bunnies from the party’s grab bag. Goodbye
eye drops, olive green pencil from the notebook
set. Adios scar like a broken trident
on the left side of your face, see you
later, see you soon

We never know what will save us (Bob Dylan).

Published on by taylor mardis katz2 Comments

Today it’s The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. Specifically these songs:

Girl from the North Country

Masters of War

A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall

Don’t Think Twice It’s All Right

Oxford Town

Corrina, Corrina

And now I’m thinking about college: about Charles Hartman, and Jen Superson, and Andrew Oedel–about second semester of senior year, when Winged Nike was right outside the window and my refrigerator had only pickles & cheese inside it and my jeans got lost in Sam’s room for so long that when I got them back, they felt new. And dinner was a far walk away but at least we never had to cook it. And we did this on the streets of New London:

Now Andrew’s in his own real band and doesn’t have to pretend anymore. Now Jen is somewhere in NY gesturing excitedly, I’ll bet.

Now I’m in a house that smells of sweetgrass, with a lot of papers all around that mean I’ve done hard work, and also that I have all of it to do. Robert Hughes once said, “The greater the artist, the greater the doubt. Perfect confidence is granted to the less talented as a consolation prize.” God I hope so.