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Doesn’t demand, it sneaks up on you, then you can choose to continue reading or ! slap the book shut, or click on an ad, or just not ever look at poetry In the first place. Demand? What demand? I have no intention of issuing edicts. ! Poetry, by its nature, is against edicts. Me too, poetry, me too. Well, anyway, what I meant to say was I go alone to poetry readings, and come home ! alone. It’s like a horror movie version of barhopping, but hey, I don’t need A wingman for poetry. Wednesday I went to HiFi on Avenue A to hear other ! underpublished writers spit their literature. They, like me, expect Their words to speak for themselves. No effing way that works in this culture, where ! the furious need for self-regard it’s not a story without pictures. No author photo? No thanks. And the right photo will get people to read silly ! annoying crap as if it is holy scripture. How did this happen? Wait, Don’t tell me. Adam’s story was tender and vicious in equal measure, but ! I’d already read it in the Paris Review. Kalpana was heartbreaking too; She dislocated our dislocation, but the dead brother lurks in too many stories. ! Or does he? My favorite, Dan, was funny like Sam Lipsyte and deadly Accurate like Don DeLillo. I had a Lagunitas IPA and talked to an MFA student ! who praised my posture (?) and a cub music reporter for the Brooklyn Rail. He said he was terrible at interviewing, because he just could not act dumb enough to get ! the subject to go on record explaining the obvious, which is What we all need explained. He said he was too prideful, which is one word for it. ! If you know what must be done and still don’t do it, what’s the word For that? I ask you. Thursday bound to be dominated by Knausgaard, ! waited in line for two full hours outside McNally Jackson to see Karl Ove. If I had known ahead of time, I wouldn’t have waited, but ignorance begat bliss. ! I gave my legs for literature. Then again stood to watch him questioned by Zadie Smith, her voice a form of therapy in itself. Karl Ove, the man, ! is naked before you, like in my many dreams where I find myself in public, Not a stitch on, carrying a towel. How a six-volume autobiographical novel full of cleaning, ! baby-minding, blow-by-blow humiliations became the literary sensation Of the year is both fantastic in the magical sense and unlikely in the extreme. Like Proust, ! it can bore you walleyed before it takes a croquet mallet to all your assumptions. Glorious. We all know Karl Ove better now than some people do their own spouses! ! Prideful writers envy his ability to strip down right in front of them as they tell Everyone they couldn’t do what he does. Never saw so many beautiful women ! at a book event: he must have groupies, pit-woofies, or dare we call them Chucklefuckers when the book is sad? I learned he wrote it at speed, ten, ! twenty pages a day, no looking back. I write like that too. He read it to a friend, all five thousand pages and Zadie interjected, “Nice friend,” like ! she didn’t have one of those. Who does? Which reminds me, it’s been ages Since I’ve read a new poem to Kay, immersed as we are in her breakthroughs. No matter. ! On Friday, down to Dumbo, to hear more (when will I have heard enough?) poetry. Captain Janeway, karate, and the genesis of mermaids came up. Not the right crowd ! for dancing, so I left early, for me, because I may be a glutton, But not for punishment. Poets may want to be loved more than any other people, ! but that doesn’t mean they’re more lovable, perhaps the opposite. Bianca said you couldn’t pay her to take a workshop now! And I agree. Time to stop ! listening to someone else’s muse for once! Saturday, we walked the Brooklyn Bridge at six am, so weird to be alone on it together: then, a biker. It’s sad in a way, ! but my jaw is losing definition. In my iPad mini, behind Orange is the New Black, I wonder who is that neckless woman scowling back at me? But I can forget about her ! when I’m people-watching first in Soho, then in Bushwick, tattoos equally Prevalent in both neighborhoods, the lingua franca here is body language. ! The tilt and swirl, the shrug and curl. OYE! DJ’s earphones worn Like a choker so as not to muss his fur fauxhawk, he spins and scratches platters, ! but he still needs an iMac. Outside on Starr Street, they’re all playing Dominoes, oblivious to wild bohemian leopard-print theater up here, but they have ! their own ink. Best use of Leo Delibes ever, as ions immolate themselves To fix nitrogen, reunited Platonic halves. Modesto, self-proclaimed theater addict, curated

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Yellow Chair Review: Issue 4  
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