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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Eileen Myles - Tasha

She prefers
my phone &

 

using my
computer
w out the burden
of her life
last night
I described
it open
a circle
she kisses
my knee
its life
that is
my name
they thought
she had
a lot
I think
it’s enough
I mean
it’s astonishing
if I had (his)
I could
feel everything
but as it is
I know
what it is
I love your
lips.

Eileen Myles - Sweet Heart

Fresca’s got a new look
but I’m not drinking
that. My coke
struck the ice
and the ice
cube cracked.
I’m sitting by the little
Buddha
who is sitting in
my yard. I imagine
you walking in
gasping at the
same couch
the same bed
it’s almost
the same
town but this is
what I meant
and there’s
so much pleasure,
difference in
this, that. I meant
to be here. One
sleeps on what
they mean
and arises on the decided
side and that’s
the hope. An entire
room is opened
by particular feelings
that say you’re
on the edge
of the space
and then you
wait to watch
it grow. Grow
like a love
or a feeling of distrust
or a body grateful
for sun & breeze
and the rising and
falling of my dog’s
chest no gut.
The little Buddha’s
smiling southeast
I figured that
out. Their
genitals are
unknown in fact
their everything’s
smiling walked on
by ants planted
in the dirt
but not dead
activated by my
gaze. Their smiling
makes me glad
dog turns Buddha’s
way I go
forward with con
fidence I
may turn nothing
up but this
gentle scratching
in my yard
before making
a call opening
the self
somehow so it’s
possible to
have a friend
to call
not only from
need but interest
in their life
the body I’m
pouring into
joyous to be
connected
to someone
while covered
by ants surrounded
by breeze
actually touched
by birds
their sound
then landing
there is nothing
romantic
in their
absence
the bird
is all touch
no matter
how distant
their flight
the sky is open
my gaze is
wide it matters
how they
dive and
hover. The silly
cluck the ninny
constant
the hoot makes
the gray sky
blue; trees
brown; green
slanting trees
the woman
dying in her
face thought
am I recording
but it was
the young man
counting everything
Korakrit
whose art
I liked
so much
performed bird
in the dying
woman’s sky
so his
quote was reverential
that she
could be copying
anything by
dying was more about
him. A moustache
on the sound
that life’s
made
of. I think
you don’t
miss me
enough
or you regard
me as seasons
that simply
come & it’s
true I’m
everything. I used
to love
so much
to show
you
my
poems.
But everything’s
not enough
you have to go out
& shake
everything’s
hand and the
tremendous
feeling of
everything
is not shook enough.
I’m sick of being
god for you.
I’m not the
Fresca or
the Buddha
or the bird. I’m
the ice
that cracks
I’m really
feeling it
now. The amazing
difference
of contact
everything’s
gasp. It begins
so slow. Hours
of freezing waiting
a life
and the draining
of it
by waiting
too long. Riding
around in
a car. I’m not
any coke. I’m
every
coke. And
a bird
likes the
sound of
that: to be
so close
the earth
parts for
its own
arrival. The time
of day
is enchanted
by my jeans
on the line.
I’m enchanted
by everything
too. How could
I be it
and feel it.
Drawing sun lines
sticks.
If I say too
again and
I’m creating
a pattern
someone who
doesn’t love
me will
say you
say too too
much. I suppose
going blind is momentarily
seeing colors
in everything
and remembering
them for
the rest of
your life. I’m afraid
to tell you I’m
going blind. What
I’m saying
is I’m retiring
from god. I will
feel my genius
quietly the furrows
of a dead
tree accepting
my love. You start
like a car
and pepper
in a number
of growls. That’s dog.
You roll
and you’re
bird and
Buddha’s
difficult
now. More
of an
aside. That something
so different
as the sun
could turn
I think
and we’re turning
on our dirty
little urn
there’s a movie
about everything
my getting
this part
of that
endlessly
obliged
to be wise. Upstairs
16 little
eggs turn
in another
galaxy someone
else’s sandwich.
Today I
was so busy
I didn’t
even see
lunch. I had
it but
I didn’t
see it
at all. The distant
eggs are turning
for someone
else. I poured
Fresca
into my glass
and then
I poured
my vodka
and then
I got drunk.
Darker
day now
when my throat
fills and
Buddha’s
awake. A bee
wants
to sting
me and
in that
moment
I would
notice
everything. Why
do you
think I’m
sweet. Why
must I
die.

Eileen Myles - Large Large White Flowers

I’m using this
it’s large
it could leave it could
change
inside of changing
is hanging
everyone crossing the street
was talking to some
one; “alone”
to be with people
sending off
their rays
I’m sticking with you
even less
nuanced. Less smell
maybe
a blue pigeon
unlocks the
door to
the slabs
of wood
on Delancey
white planks &
then really beautiful
planks of artificial
wood leaning
against a tree
why is this pithy
to me. I’m re
lieved to be living
one day
without camera
or pen or
watch
I felt totally un
watched
alone w this
non assignment
this deliberation
to be glad
for New York
that contains
dogs & statements
experimental
art; art of yore
and that blue
pigeon that
followed the wood
but has
a pigeon ever been blue
before or the
night in such
stripes
go out
without your phone
call no one
Honey’s hunching on
the rug
the intactness of
all experience
deserves our wavering
but eventual
respect. Call me after
everything
I have some
love. Rather
than apologizing
I’m doing
well
rather than letting
you go
I’m letting you
leave
blue pigeon
I’ve got your
back
and the vista
that surrounds
you is magnificent
I’m leaving
it there!

Eileen Myles - A Gift for You

Eileen Myles opens her apartment to us and considers the way relationships have shaped that space. Produced by Sara Murphy.

More information at: www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrynow

around 530 is

a beautiful peaceful

time

you can just

hear the dog

lapping

David lifts his smoke

to his

lips forever

dangling chain

in the middle

of everything

bout the top shelf

or so. The party

at which

I sd that’s my col-

lected

works and every

one

stared my home

was so small

is it

I’m not particularly

into the task

of humility

at the moment

but I’m

not against

it

it’s like that

deflated

beach ball

on a tiny

chair

 

I think of as

joking

with the larger

one on a

painting

floating in air

my home

is large

love made it

large once

not to

get all

John Wieners

& believe

me love made

it small

once

this place

only had

sex unlike

the house

I love a house

I fear a house

a house never

gets laid

frankly who

doesn’t like

a hotel

room

I live in a

hotel

room a personal

one. A young

person very

much like me

was brutal

no personal

photographs

please   it was

anyone’s

home perfect

for a party

now I’m

going fast. How

the description

of a drug

enters

a room

& changes

the room

thus

with going

fast

say thus

if you

want to go

slow. To drink

the wrong

thing for a

moment

for you

to lick my

thigh

& your

honey

face

 

I met a dog

named

Izzie

once, I

met a

dog named Alan

the calm

person writing

her calm

poems

now & then

she shows

her sacred

heart

she opens

her chest &

a monkey

god

is taking

a shit

swinging

on his

thing. You didn’t

know I

had so

much inside

me buckets

of malice

bibles

of peace

I don’t want

to go

all library

on you

now like

my mother

the mother of

god or

my brother

named

Jack who

sat in

a deck

of cards

getting

hard

when she squeezes

in getting

cozy I know

less what

I want

to say. I can open

an entire

 

    room comes

out each

moment that’s

what I mean

not things

widen &

flow there’s

no purpose

to this.

Eileen Myles - Movie

You’re like
a little fruit
you’re like
a moon I want
to hold
I said lemon slope
about your
hip
because it’s one
of my words
about you
I whispered
in bed
this smoothing
the fruit &
then alone
with my book
but writing
in it the pages
wagging
against my knuckles
in the
light like a
sail.

Eileen Myles - Each Defeat

Please! Keep

reading me

Blake

because you’re going to make

me the greatest

poet of

all time

 

Keep smoothing

the stones in the

driveway

let me fry an egg

on your ass

& I’ll pick up

the mail.

 

I feel your

absence in

the morning

& imagine your

instant mouth

let me move

in with you—

Travelling

wrapping your limbs

on my back

I grow man woman

Child

I see wild wild wild

 

Keep letting the

day be massive

Unlicensed

Oh please have

my child

      I’m a little

      controlling

      Prose has some

      Magic. Morgan

had a

whore in

her lap. You

Big fisherman

I love my

Friends.

 

I want to lean

my everything

with you

make home for your hubris

I want to read the words you circld over and over again

A slow skunk walking across the road

Yellow, just kind

of pausing

picked up the warm

laundry. I just saw a coyote

tippy tippy tippy

I didn’t tell you about the creature with hair

long hair, it was hit by cars on the highway

Again and again. It had long grey hair

It must’ve been a dog; it could’ve been

Ours. Everyone loses their friends.

 

I couldn’t tell anyone about this sight.

Each defeat

Is sweet.

Eileen Myles - Twilight Train

Now the pink is in the water
its wavy edges celebrated
by cars & guys with hands
in pockets staring out. A woman
chewing gum by the window
of the train. Which heaves
its accordion on & we move.
They call it choo-choo
because of the faint chooing
sound as it starts. It's
twee too & dit dit dit
eel & screech. All this as
the colors change. The buildings
they bothered to paint
white are pink like
someone's awful socks
were mistakenly
washed. Who owns
this insidious red. The
trees are black
cause that's where the green
goes. The girl who chews
has fanned her fingers
out below the glass
and I long to stare
at them. To count
them one by one
as the wires slip
by. It's the sultriness,
the smokey approach
of the loss of
light that I love. The
homosexual lilac
comes & it's ours
& everyone like us. The
bright compartment
of white lights &
gleaming flip top &
yawns rage
on. Outside the Hudson
River queerness tools
on my brain like
a hopeless little
wallet of feeling. A clear
swipe to night. Everyone
in my compartment
is tearing now. It's true,
I heard two sheets
at once get torn
to pluck a brownie
out. Its smell
oozes, & the other
one, god knows
whose—to park
her gum? Her hands
are holding her
head, my silent
partner's & she's
sleeping (deep in my gaze.) I look
at her knees, the wrinkled
foot just above
the heel, a yellowish
unmoody pink. The trees
crowd the house &
finally we go fast
finally it's not so
warm on the train
& boats are sitting
on purple sand
the mountains
are bland & blue
a woman's sigh
is falling
off, from on
high and
into her body.
My partner's
knees sway.
Someone says
Proust. Or was
it Bruce. The train
is rough. Cutting
through sweetness
every night.
I think "time."
Then "cargo."

Eileen Myles - An American Poem

I was born in Boston in
1949. I never wanted
this fact to be known, in
fact I’ve spent the better
half of my adult life
trying to sweep my early
years under the carpet
and have a life that
was clearly just mine
and independent of
the historic fate of
my family. Can you
imagine what it was
like to be one of them,
to be built like them,
to talk like them
to have the benefits
of being born into such
a wealthy and powerful
American family. I went
to the best schools,
had all kinds of tutors
and trainers, traveled
widely, met the famous,
the controversial, and
the not-so-admirable
and I knew from
a very early age that
if there were ever any
possibility of escaping
the collective fate of this famous
Boston family I would
take that route and
I have. I hopped
on an Amtrak to New
York in the early
‘70s and I guess
you could say
my hidden years
began. I thought
Well I’ll be a poet.
What could be more
foolish and obscure.
I became a lesbian.
Every woman in my
family looks like
a dyke but it’s really
stepping off the flag
when you become one.
While holding this ignominious
pose I have seen and
I have learned and
I am beginning to think
there is no escaping
history. A woman I
am currently having
an affair with said
you know you look
like a Kennedy. I felt
the blood rising in my
cheeks. People have
always laughed at
my Boston accent
confusing “large” for
“lodge,” “party”
for “potty.” But
when this unsuspecting
woman invoked for
the first time my
family name
I knew the jig
was up. Yes, I am,
I am a Kennedy.
My attempts to remain
obscure have not served
me well. Starting as
a humble poet I
quickly climbed to the
top of my profession
assuming a position of
leadership and honor.
It is right that a
woman should call
me out now. Yes,
I am a Kennedy.
And I await
your orders.
You are the New Americans.
The homeless are wandering
the streets of our nation’s
greatest city. Homeless
men with AIDS are among
them. Is that right?
That there are no homes
for the homeless, that
there is no free medical
help for these men. And women.
That they get the message
—as they are dying—
that this is not their home?
And how are your
teeth today? Can
you afford to fix them?
How high is your rent?
If art is the highest
and most honest form
of communication of
our times and the young
artist is no longer able
to move here to speak
to her time…Yes, I could,
but that was 15 years ago
and remember—as I must
I am a Kennedy.
Shouldn’t we all be Kennedys?
This nation’s greatest city
is home of the business-
man and home of the
rich artist. People with
beautiful teeth who are not
on the streets. What shall
we do about this dilemma?
Listen, I have been educated.
I have learned about Western
Civilization. Do you know
what the message of Western
Civilization is? I am alone.
Am I alone tonight?
I don’t think so. Am I
the only one with bleeding gums
tonight. Am I the only
homosexual in this room
tonight. Am I the only
one whose friends have
died, are dying now.
And my art can’t
be supported until it is
gigantic, bigger than
everyone else’s, confirming
the audience’s feeling that they are
alone. That they alone
are good, deserved
to buy the tickets
to see this Art.
Are working,
are healthy, should
survive, and are
normal. Are you
normal tonight? Everyone
here, are we all normal.
It is not normal for
me to be a Kennedy.
But I am no longer
ashamed, no longer
alone. I am not
alone tonight because
we are all Kennedys.
And I am your President.