A giving of thanks (mine).

This is a thank-you to everyone who reads this blog,

 

because you do, and it makes me feel thankful and surrounded and known and relevant. Because you google “panache taylor katz” or “taylor mardis katz” and you get here. You read it and you text me about it. You read it and write me an email. You read it and cry and tell me about it. You”like this” on facebook. You refer to something from here in a conversation. You secretly, you in your house with your mug, you in your house with your dog, with your nothing on at all, you read this thing I write.

I write this thing because I love people and I like people and I believe that a person who likes or loves me would like to end up here. Because all of you have jobs, or you are trying to have jobs, and you are walking around, taking public transportation, shaking hands, heating up a lunch, you are talking on the phone or you are completing projects or having a drink with new or old friends, or you are in law school or you are in Berlin, and you like poetry, somewhere. If only because you know me. Poetry is a thing that I love and people are a thing that I love and to me, the two are connected.

And then there are the people that end up here accidentally, because I typed up a poem they searched for, or I compiled photographs they were curious about. They don’t know me but maybe they click around. I am not famous and I am not invincible and I know only a small amount. I don’t know who ends up here, I only know the numbers, when I check them.

When I write about something having to do with love, people click. That, alone, is fact enough to thank. I have things to say and I like to sit down and say them, and I do it, and you read. This blog is not one thing, it is many; it’s here to say: I like poets. I like photographers, especially when they photograph people. I like Misha and my friends. I like to feel like I am living the life I began imagining for myself at a very young age. I miss people, and I care for them by writing a poem that will make them laugh. I love my sister, and she moved to Texas. I like to think of my parents when they were young. I have a sideyard, and you should come to it. I am questioning and sometimes a poem surfaces to answer. I drew something, and it’s unskilled but you can see it. I wrote a little ditty and why not put it out there.

I am multiple and I am grateful and I am predisposed to joy. I make poems as a way of staying here. If you read this, it is very likely that we get along. And so: hey guys. Thanks for clicking on this site, this someplace on the internet. It really makes me happy that you do.

With love,

Taylor Mardis Katz

 

(Edward Hopper’s “Freight Car at Truro”)

 

Thursday night (mine) (poem).

Illastep

 

Three dudes making music

on a rolled-out rug

 

Outside the table umbrellas

are lined with lights

 

One red guitar

One guitar with four shining knobs

 

Ian like a young Allen Ginsberg

on the drums

 

The lips of the man I kiss

taste like new smoke

 

People are talking and people

are nodding along

 

All my hair is safely stowed

underneath my hat

 

Good god thank you, this

is exactly what I wanted out of my twenties

 

 

New favorite poem (Galway Kinnell).

Last Gods

 

She sits naked on a rock

a few yards out in the water.

He stands on the shore,

also naked, picking blueberries.

She calls. He turns. She opens

her legs showing him her great beauty,

and smiles, a bow of lips

seeming to tie together

the ends of the earth.

Splashing her image

to pieces, he wades out

and stands before her, sunk

to the anklebones in leaf-mush

and bottom-slime—the intimacy

of the geographical. He puts

a berry in its shirt

of mist into her mouth.

She swallows it. He puts in another.

She swallows it. Over the lake

two swallows whim, juke jink,

and when one snatches

an insect they both whirl up

and exult. He is swollen

not with ichor but with blood.

She takes him and talks him

more swollen. He kneels, opens

the dark, vertical smile

linking heaven with the underearth

and murmurs her smoothest flesh more smooth.

On top of the rock they join.

Somewhere a frog moans, a crow screams.

The hair of their bodies

startles up. They cry

in the tongue of the last gods,

who refused to go,

chose death, and shuddered

in joy and shattered in pieces,

bequeathing their cries

into the human breast. Now in the lake

two faces, floating, see up

a great maternal pine whose branches

open out in all directions

explaining everything.

Friday night (mine) (it’s a poem).

Alight with all the essences

 

I call this Rain Diego, rain for one minute in San Diego

 

The only thing a Fanta and a persimmon have in common is color

 

On the bus Scott looks gorgeous with the night moving black behind him

 

The martinis have back-up olives & back-up gin

 

You know him in the biblical sense

 

HIPSTERS*HIPSTERS*HIPSTERSATTHEARTGALLERY

 

There’s something about knowing someone in the biblical sense that makes it okay to take sips from their drink

 

I should’ve stolen that tiny tiny decanter when I had the chance

 

There’s no such thing as practice floral arrangements. You don’t waste flowers!

 

An empty Dr. Pepper bottle in my greenleather pocket

 

Green leather red leather three friends in leather would be better

 

I feel like such a GIRL when I’m with you

 

This tiny red can of champagne. This tiny red can at the Tin Can Alehouse

 

That girl’s got a wind machine

 

That tiny dog just pooped on the bar room floor

 

-We just danced in circles around thrown-off shoes, you missed it

-Oh I didn’t miss it/I was just waiting/for you to finish doing your thing

 

You’re doing something wrong, without a doubt, but it’s not that you’re wrong

 

I’m goin’ down to the bus station baby with a suitcase in my hand

 

In circles on the bar room floor

 

Walking up 5th is not nearly as hard as Main Street in Pittsburgh

 

If you know someone in the Biblical sense you can lean on them and whisper (the music’s loud)

 

If you know someone in the Biblical sense they might be asleep in your bed against the floor near the ground that will be rained on

 

I’m goin’ down to the bus station baby with a suitcase in my hand

 

Those girls are too skinny for girls

 

Those girls are too SKINNY for boys!

 

A chile relleno burrito/

and sauce/

Hot sauce

Poem for someone I have never met (mine).

Poem for Geoff

 

You have only just begun to love her

and therefore there is no way for you to know

how much I love her. I love her so ardently

that already I must and do love you. And not

because of anecdotes  or the photo of your parted

hair, but because you loving her is a way to keep

my loving relevant, keep it safely and unwilted

in the air nearby her, air I can’t inhabit after moving

far away. I thank you and I thank you for keeping her

not in a jar but within a cloud of particles that love

her particles, within the air I see  you breathing out,

visible as steam and towards her, no matter

what the weather calls itself that day.