A Poem in Two Homes
Everywhere I go
is home
when I’m dreaming.
Creamy traffic
pouring past
the Noho Star
“I thought you were
coming to my
home!”
l am.
Okay.
At my back:
all of Bleecker St.
the confusing
part of New
York life
three generations
back. Today:
fruit stand, bad
bars: Stormin’
Norman & Susie,
old cafes, Village
Oldees, depression
now, the Bleecker
Cinema—Some
interesting “film”
Become a member
of the Bleecker
St. Cinema
your first year
in town. It’s
doubtful I will
move to Atlanta
for business. To
Texas to teach.
Remember Soho. This
is Soho. There’s
just these two
bars and then
the OG where
conceptual artists
sat all day
you can hardly
hear it, my
poetry. It’s
in danger of
vanishing if
I don’t write
it down. Does
it change like
the neighbor-
hoods, yes,
if you don’t
buy it in a flash
well who knows
what’ll happen
to you? You’ll
wind up in the
lower east side,
one day all cobble-
stoned with
trolley tracks &
dairy restaurants
like some old
world. There was
a giant line out-
side that old
church on New
Year’s day. You
couldn’t get in
so you went &
had coffee
with the
guy who depressed
you, Noel Sack.
Eileen, why don’t
you work he
said.
Noel, I sd
waving my hands.
I bought his
old speakers
& my check
bounced.
That was the
last straw.
He was so
pissed. I
guess he’s
in California
or someplace.
We went to that
history of the Avant
Garde Cinema
at the Modern Art.
I didn’t want
to be
with him at
all. His teacher
Duncan McNaughton
writes me about
the “real thing”
poetry that’s not
what, language,
ethnic, lesbian
black, you
know like Charles
Olson.
I packed all
of my clothes
from your
home into a
Macy’s shopping
bag. Oh gimme
that jacket, I
wanted to
wear that. And
walking up twelfth
brrr it’s
really cold. Gimme
that white tur-
tle neck.
I did not forget
the yellow legal
paper folded
with the stripes
going up. I
forgot the tan
notebook full
of numbers
I’ve got
to call. I’m
walking home
with a Macy’s
bag and one sweater
& a head band
in it. Her soul
is not a great
soul. She dwells
on domestic things:
her love. Her walk
in the cold &
even keeping to the
tiniest rule makes
me full.
My home becomes
a prayer mount
when I get
there—full of
light & dust &
the answering
machine blinking.
Hello Eileen, I am
Joel Lewis. I
am the world’s
greatest poet.
I do not seem
to be obedient
to the world
today. Since
television, there
has been
me. It has
been a tall
order to carry
out, the whole
case for enter-
taining literacy
on my back.
I was listening
to a tape of
Patti Smith yes-
terday in
my home. It was
before she had
a band & everything
in her voice
was waiting
for it.
And, even better,
oh dear god,
andro-
gynous creep
in the sky
Danny heard
Hitler. & he
says Hitler
sd bumble
bumble, not much
blurrr facts,
bull shit
& then he exploded
you didn’t
know when
& that was
what moved
the crowd. The
freedom of
exploding
in the air.
Hitler, Hitler,
Hitler pop
Hitler.
I want to
be Will
Rogers
that’s what
I want to
be. And,
that folks
(twirl twirl)
is the
end of the
world. As
we know.
I think I will
be the anti-
christ. Rather
than simple
Eileen Myles.
Poor she. The
anti-christ
is me. I
died at the
age of 33
yet I
walk the
streets of
the east
village joyful,
and remorseless
like a cruel
& perfect
poem, my
butt, unsold.
Sometimes
I act vague
about my
lesbianity.
No, it is
deeper
than all
I know. The
softness, the
flagrant
disposition. To-
day I used
half a jar
of Dippity
Do & I
got it right.
I will put
my plastic
head on
your shoulder
& weep.
For you, but
not for
me. My
compassion is
boundless &
incredible.
My mission is
not so predictable
as reverse
of the first.
I take some
of this
& some of
that, I
wiggle
unlike Christ.
I’m not a
girl, nor
a boy. I
won’t bear
child,
nor knock
you up. I
do not
come w/instructions
even to myself.
All my notions
are felt
I think, as the
arrow
strikes the
fatty part
of the
arm of
the boy martyr
I am unwounded
wet from the
well. I am
clear-eyed &
burning with
dispassion
like Christ,
but different.
Zounds. I
love that word.
Zounds. It
resembles arrows.
Each panel
represents a dif-
ferent industry
or else each
panel represents
a different re-
ligion, or masonic
lodge, or else
each panel re-
presents an age,
like the awful
age of pisces
which we’re leaving
behind us as
we’re chugging
on towards
the great
new mysterious
age of Aquarius.
Everything you
can think of
that seems
mysterious
everything’s
going
to be
like that.
A sphinx would
make you
happy because
at least
a sphinx
is a fact.
We’re coming
from there,
the desert &
we’re going
right back
in. Now
more than
any other
time in
history, you
really ought
to please
yourself
because
in mysterious
winds a
cave inside
your soul
might be
the only
place
to go.
So why house
a skunk?
Once my whole
apartment is
grey I can
think this
all out.
But I’m
hardly
ever home. Hi,
I barge in,
all smiles,
the answer
machine is
blinking away
& my hands
all full of
direct mail
envelopes, Salvation
Army, gay direct
mail, poor Bowery
guys, culture.
Everybody wants
money. And
I just came
home from
a hard
day of looking
for money
for my
organization,
that of
the poet.
In your
decline
I sing
your song.
At the end
of the
world
l am
my poem.