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Confetti Allegiance: Love Letter to Jim Brodey

CAConrad

2009

Confetti Allegiance

 

Is there a deceased poet who was alive in your lifetime but you never met, and you wish you had met? A poet you would LOVE to correspond with, but it's too late? Take notes about this missed opportunity. What is your favorite poem by this poet? Write it on unlined paper by hand (no typing). If we were gods we wouldn't need to invent beautiful poems, and that's why our lives are more interesting, and that's why the gods are always meddling in our affairs out of boredom. It's like the fascination the rich have with the poor, as Alice Notley says, "the poor are more interesting than others, almost uniformly." This poem was written by a human poet, and we humans love our poets, if we have any sense. Does something strike flint in you from the process of engaging your body to write this poem you know and love? Notes, notes, take notes.

 

The poet for me in doing this exercise is Jim Brodey and his poem "Little Light," which he wrote in the bathtub while listening to the music of Eric Dolphy, masturbating in the middle of the poem, "while the soot-tinted noise of too-full streets echoes / and I pick up the quietly diminishing soap & do / myself again." Take your handwritten version of the poem and cut it into tiny confetti. Heat olive oil in a frying pan and toss the confetti poem in. Add garlic, onion, parsnip, whatever you want, pepper it, salt it, serve it over noodles or rice. Eat the delicious poem with a nice glass of red wine, pausing to read it out loud and toast the poet, "MANY APOLOGIES FOR NOT TOASTING YOU WHEN YOU WERE ALIVE!" Take notes while slowly chewing the poem. Chew slowly so your saliva breaks the poem down before it slides into your belly to feed your blood and cells of your body. Gather your notes, write your poem.

 

 

Love Letter to Jim Brodey

 

Dear Jim

for

those whose

acid trips were a success

only twice

I've met men who

are high exactly

as they are sober

both became my lovers

 

both died one like

you died Jim he

played music too

loud at parties to

gather us into a

single frequency feel

healed for the length

of a song

 

nothing works forever

there was something in

the air that year Jim

and you put it there

 

a rapt center in

pivot looking

to face

love again

learning to

accept what's offered

without guilt

 

to be reminded

of nothing

my favorite day not dragging

the dead around

 

they're looking

for Lorca in the Valley

of the Fallen

 

Franco's thugs would understand

"developing countries" means

getting them ready for

mining diamonds drilling oil

teaching them to make a

decent cup of coffee for

visiting executives

 

if I'm not going

to live like this

anymore I must will

every cell to

stand away

 

the History of Madness

725 pages is too much to

not be normal

 

scorn is very

motivating

 

I'm vegetarian unless

angels are on the

menu mouth watering

deep fried wings

shove greasy bones in

their trumpets

 

the cost of

scorn is

often unexpected

 

I see my fascist

neighbor from downstairs

"Did my boyfriend and

I make too much

noise last night?"

his glare the

YES that keeps

me smiling

 

 

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