Friday, 14 September 2012, approximately 8 pm, on the 2 train (running on the 5 track) while reading Frank O’Hara’s Lunch Poems.
What do I feel when I read:
The words that have been written or
The words that have been written about
The words that have been written?
The train is momentarily held by the train’s dispatcher
(2 minutes, approximately 2 minutes)
I am not annoyed by this.
People frown, they
Leaves the train.
I am annoyed by this.
This is the first poem I have written in a long, long time.
I read a couple of poems, and now
I write a poem — only it is not
A poem. It is only an extension
Of that which is not mine.
I will leave tonight once I feel even slightly drunk or
Awkward, whichever comes first.
I feel awkward all the time.
I leave before I go.
I want to burst in the way the train doors have just burst open behind me while I was leaning on them (the doors always command you not to lean on them but I do anyway, fuck the system right?). I imagine assuming a character that exists on a plane of spontaneous non-self-conscious confidence materialising in an explosive tirade of train-traffic-induced hysteria perfectly orchestrated to awaken that sleepy boy in the corner of this film festival farce waiting for someone just like me to appear.
This will never happen — I am never non-self-conscious, and there is never a sleepy boy in the corner.
It uses all the words that have already been used to describe it.