Author’s Prayer

by Ilya Kaminsky

If I speak for the dead, I must leave
this animal of my body,

I must write the same poem over and over,
for an empty page is the white flag of their surrender.

If I speak for them, I must walk on the edge
of myself, I must live as a blind man

who runs through rooms without
touching the furniture.

Yes, I live. I can cross the streets asking “What year is it?”
I can dance in my sleep and laugh

in front of the mirror.
Even sleep is a prayer, Lord,

I will praise your madness, and
in a language not mine, speak

of music that wakes us, music
in which we move. For whatever I say

is a kind of petition, and the darkest
days must I praise.

“Author’s Prayer” from Dancing in Odessa.

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I must have more of this poetry.
I must.
I must and I will

Contemporary art is a cock ring on a giant erection pumped up by capitalism and keeping the masters of that game from cumming. I think they like it. I think the artists like it, too. They get to pretend to be profound. Some are. Most are hemorrhoids waiting to happen. The blood that pumps it all up is money. Green blood.

Philip-Lorca diCorcia writing for Art Forum

In some respects I suspect you’ve got a respectable side.
When pushed and pulled and pressured, you seldom run and hide,
But it’s for someone else’s benefit, not for what you wanna do
Until I realize that you’ve realized I’m gonna say these words to you.

Yeah, you don’t know what love is,
You do as you’re told.
Just as a child of ten might act,
But you’re far too old.
You’re not hopeless, or helpless,
And I hate to sound cold,
But you don’t know what love is,
You just do as you’re told.

I can see your man can’t help but win any problems that may arise,
But in his mind, there can be no sin if you never criticize.
You just keep on, repeating all those empty “I love you”s.
Until you see you deserve better, I’m gonna lay right into you.

Yeah, you don’t know what love is,
You just do as you’re told.
Just as a child of ten might act,
But you’re far too old.
You’re not hopeless, or helpless,
And I hate to sound cold,
But you don’t know what love is,
No you don’t know what love is,
No you don’t know what love is,
You just do as you’re told.
Yeah, do as you’re told
Yeah.

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Special thanks to Mr. S. who sent this to me. (After all, Mr. S., it is *our* story, isn’t it?)

Yes Yes

Charles Bukowski

when God created love he didn’t help most
when God created dogs He didn’t help dogs
when God created plants that was average
when God created hate we had a standard utility
when God created me He created me
when God created the monkey He was asleep
when He created the giraffe He was drunk
when He created narcotics He was high
and when He created suicide He was low

when He created you lying in bed
He knew what He was doing
He was drunk and He was high
and He created the mountains and the sea and fire at the same time

He made some mistakes
but when He created you lying in bed
He came all over His Blessed Universe.