Category: san diego

Poem (mine).

Published on by taylor mardis katz1 Comment

How it happened

I was free to choose me here or me in Colorado but
California wins I’m hurt while he makes his decision
then reverent when he comes along I write it all down
to remember the ways we might have done it otherwise.
We go to California stay in a mansion the people
are related to me but the carpet’s too thick gets stuck
in our toes we’re there for 3 weeks which is just
the point they start to tire of us our sleepings late
our books around and computers we smoke in the guest
room bathroom after they’ve gone to sleep, towel
the door like teenagers I’m waiting to like someone
I meet but I haven’t met anyone yet only
seen them at grocery stores not yet at my school
where I’m supposed to love people for three years
minimum then we finally find a house buy a spatula (two
by accident!) and a broom and at the beginning
life is slow and I organize the shoes a lot then
I become a shopping bag the type that’s the only one
you brought to the store even though you bought
a whole week’s worth of groceries and goodness
then I’m all purchased bagged and overfilled and the shoes
get sloppy but the days get good

A song is a poem (and not just because of lyrics).

Published on by taylor mardis katz1 Comment

Just when I thought I’d finally gotten over this song…I’m presented with a new reason to love it.

Chelsea Hotel No. 2 by Leonard Cohen

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,
you were talking so brave and so sweet,
giving me head on the unmade bed,
while the limousines wait in the street.
Those were the reasons and that was New York,
we were running for the money and the flesh.
And that was called love for the workers in song
probably still is for those of them left.
Ah but you got away, didn’t you babe,
you just turned your back on the crowd,
you got away, I never once heard you say,
I need you, I don’t need you,
I need you, I don’t need you
and all of that jiving around.

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
you were famous, your heart was a legend.
You told me again you preferred handsome men
but for me you would make an exception.
And clenching your fist for the ones like us
who are oppressed by the figures of beauty,
you fixed yourself, you said, “Well never mind,
we are ugly but we have the music.”

I don’t mean to suggest that I loved you the best,
I can’t keep track of each fallen robin.
I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,
that’s all, I don’t even think of you that often.

I’ll call it wisdom (Ilya Kaminsky).

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“A poem is not a report on life. A poem is life.”

And also, this week:

learned how to use a letter press

acquired dreams of grandeur associated with said letter press

constructed new life plan which combines countryside + visitors + artists + farming

read a poem that exploded some hairs from my head: woah

panicked about taxes & other numbers

humbled/thrilled by my poems in a screenplay thanks to jessie katz (!!)

piled lots of birthday mail on the table for wednesday

read lowell insatiably, aided by the notes of my mother, camels class of ’78 (thanks mom)

ate triple citrus

ate tuna fish

ate entire daytimes, ate a cookie from a stranger & ice cream from the carton

watched misha with a smartphone

remembered that when people make me uncomfortable i unconsciously sing otis redding to myself &

sissykatz arrives on saturday (& thank goodness for THAT)

 

 

Brunch Poem Day 11 (mine).

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The chainsaw saunters in at seven
in the morning. The street has eyes;
it plugs the gutter holes with noise.
I turn to you and laugh because the day,
again, is ours to ridicule. We’re fools
when faced with many tasks: the timeliness
of haircuts, clothes that suit the function,
the godforsaken broken sink. We press
this weekday’s love of minutes to the wall
we’ve punctured with our stalwart predilection
for the east. In your hair I’ve found two dozen
reasons to remain and the kitchen, in its grace,
has yet to ask us when. The pan is hot.
We disobey the workmen’s noise.