Conversation · Part I

Shit is shit, and rat is shit.
True.
So why do you welcome them?
If life moved us.
As a van jam-packed with melancholy cops.
From the city to the country.
From the fiery blue underbelly of a matchless flame.
We would suck cigars.
Feel absolutely forbidden to open the door to the grassy area.
If I spoke very quietly.
I’d see you.
Never say you see someone.
Shit is shit, and rat is shit.
Better, more often.
You’d hear yourself yelling.
True.
From the city to the country.
We spend all this time laughing.
Wait, do we?
If I spoke very quietly.
Like a fiddle or a wool heart.
Several blue strands fall out in her hands.
Never say you see someone.
I’m looking for my angle face to keep me warm this winter.
I’m looking for invisibility.
You’d hear yourself yelling.
Shit is shit, and rat is shit.
Like a fiddle or a wool heart.
I like ankles knees thighs groin tummy tits, especially tits.
Every angle’s terrible.
From the city to the country.
True.
As a van jam-packed with melancholy cops.
I’d see you.
Better, more often.
We would suck cigars.
Why hello speckly sparrow-like bird!
So why do you welcome them?
He isn’t bad-looking.
As a van jam-packed with melancholy cops.
From the fiery blue underbelly of a matchless flame.
I like ankles, especially ankles.
He isn’t bad-looking.
If I spoke very quietly.
Better, more often.
If life moved us.
Like a fiddle or a wool heart.
Every angle’s terrible.
So why do you welcome them?
Wait, do we?
Feel absolutely forbidden to the open door to the grassy area.
We spend all this time laughing.
Better, more often.
We spend all this time laughing.
Wait, do we?
I’m looking for my angle face to keep me warm this winter.
Several blue strands fall out in her hands.
From the fiery blue underbelly of a matchless flame.
I like angles, especially angles.
Like a fiddle or a wool heart.
I’m looking for invisibility.
Why hello, speckly sparrow-like bird!
Never say you see someone.
Wait, do we?
We would suck cigars.
True.
I’d see you.
True.
From the city to the country.
Better, more often.




Conversation · Part III

When I was a little girl I decided.
Chilly as a tin-blown yap.
I would poison you but not to death, to something else.
The shepherd said to me.
Bury your face in the white woman.
Waffle cones grow from her ears.
Like eye-smiles and finger-waves.
I thought to myself.
Shall I?
Ascend the mountain.
The shepherd reached the peak, and what did he find?
Some kind of pick-me-up.
Some ghosts never change.
I notice you dyed your hair black.
Thank you for noticing.
The curls have become less complicated.
Like eye-smiles and finger-waves.
Thank you for noticing.
Just a couple of fish sticks, you and I.
Don’t cry, French fry.
Some kind of pick-me-up.
One line is never enough.
Dip it in sherbet.
Shall I?
Try all delicious varieties.
When I was a little girl I decided.
One line is never enough.
I thought to myself.
Ascend the mountain.
Chilly as a tin-blown yap.
Dip it in sherbet.
She might give you a little lift.
Some kind of pick-me-up.
The shepherd said to me.
Just a couple of fish sticks, you and I.
Try all delicious varieties.
I thought to myself.
Some ghosts never change.
The shepherd said to me.
Maggie is a sheepdog with tumors on her belly.
Waffle cones grow from her ears.
The curls have become less complicated.
Some ghosts never change.
Thank you for noticing.
I thought to myself.
Don’t cry, French fry.
Bury your face in the white woman.
She might give you a little lift.
The shepherd reached the peak, and what did he find?
One line is never enough.
The curls have become less complicated.
I thought to myself.
Shall I?
Try all delicious varieties.
I notice you dyed your hair black.




Conversation · Part IV

What’s your line?
What’s your pleasure?
This might just be your lucky night.
You look like a cop.
Very fine, thank you.
Let’s point to something terrible and disgusting.
Raspberries, blackberries, strawberries…
It’s all up in the air.
I had me a supermarket in my yard.
Conclusive might be your defining characteristic.
So, why do you ignore my zit on prom?
Tits on the albatross.
Just to suffer your humiliation.
But I won’t say a word.
I’m hardly interested in Kotex.
Like a cold shower, catching a gerbil.
Perhaps candy shouldn’t be pretty.
If you can’t trust sugar, who can you trust?
The pitch of his voice…
It wards off even the most candy-loving.
Would you call me severe?
Would you call me already?
Never—every word a slimy death.
I only mention it as a possibility.
No, I won’t say what I mean, Jacques.
Ahhhhhh!
Your verisimilitude must be very isolating.
Very fine, thank you.
Like a cold shower, catching a gerbil.
From the terrarium of mystery.
I had me a supermarket in my yard.
Rasberries, blackberries, strawberries…
I think we just kissed.
Jenna slaughters a calf only once a year.
With the leg of a bear, waist of a woman.
The pitch of his voice…
Tits on the albatross.
What’s your pleasure?
Mania for systems, something deathly.
So, would heaven be seeing the pattern clearly?
Providing the escape?
Mug a puppy.
Just to suffer your humiliation.
I would stalk you very fast.
This might just be your lucky night.
We made plans with Kane before we were able to…
Conclusive might be your defining characteristic.
Through the mirror.
You look like a cop.
But I won’t say a word.
What’s your line?
You’ll find a book that’s a box.
Perhaps you do not see words because you do not have them in you.




Stephanie Berger: Protest vs. Seduction

by Mitchell McInnis
The Poetry Brothel brings together many strands of poetry, of its public and private voices. Leading up to what would’ve been its initial performance in Manhattan, it received some attention from the Village Voice. Unfortunately, talk of booze in the Voice made the theater owners skittish (they didn’t hold a license), and the Brothel was cancelled. Berger and her self-proclaimed “Poetry Whores” took to the streets, protesting and arresting the attention of a local bar. The impromptu performance/protest was a success, and it fed the energy of their full performance on Valentine’s Day.

Stephanie and I corresponded throughout these developments, and one question intrigued us both:

How do you resolve the tension between protest and seduction? Or do you?

Oh, is there a tension there?  Ha!  Silly me, I never noticed...  I guess my problem is that I just really enjoy the brothel aesthetic, I like it and don't really bother getting lost in the maze of theorization about its implications.  Usually when people seem to think the brothel thing is kitschy or exploitative, I just make some joke like, "We're poets.  We spend some much time giving it away for free, why not make like we're getting paid?" which might be a little bit true, a small part of the joy, who knows, or I'll try to talk to them a little about what appeals to us so much about it as more serious poets, the intimacy, etc.  As far as what you're talking about, arresting these moments, I'm just not sure there's a tension there.  We seduce in the Poetry Brothel, that's what we do in a way, and the protest part was just sort of incidental to our situation.  We were kicked out onto the streets, booted, and unjustly so.  Yeah, we put up posters, held a little procession, but I guess I just don't think you need a loud-speaker and to seem really angry to be protesting something.  Even that's a sort of seduction if you ask me. People get really into that protest aesthetic too and lust over the whole big, damn demonstration without thinking too much about the cause half them time.  I prefer seducing and protesting a little more gently.  After all, poetry's public voice, protesting something or not, can also be an intimate one, a voice that speaks to an individual and has that much more appeal for a larger community of readers and listeners.  That's what Coleridge was doing with his "Conversation" poems.  I think about that a lot when I read Frank O'Hara.  It's an interesting question, this tension.  I'm not sure I know the answer.

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