I’m always glad when we come to the end of Hitler’s birthday month. Unfortunately, it’s also the end of Poetry Month and I did almost nothing to commemorate one of my favorite art forms. Back when I was working at Shakespeare & Co. in New York, this horrible looking man would come in to say hello to one of my coworkers, whose name I think was Brant. The man was unwashed and had a leering ogre quality to him, and he was usually wearing a dirty beige woman’s full length down coat. Brant would share his antidepressants with the guy, who’d thank him and leave, so fortunately we didn’t have to follow him around the store to make sure he didn’t steal anything. And I said, Brant, who’s that guy, and Brant said, It’s Gregory Corso. The man who wrote “Marriage”?! I gasped. Yes, said Brant, now I’m going to get a cup of coffee, do you want anything while I’m out? I was supposed to be the night manager and here was a cashier, telling me he was leaving for a snack. Which is why I should never be in charge of anybody.

Marriage

Should I get married? Should I be Good?

Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustaus hood?

Don’t take her to movies but to cemeteries

tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets

then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries

and she going just so far and I understanding why

not getting angry saying You must feel! It’s beautiful to feel!

Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone

and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky–

When she introduces me to her parents

back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,

should I sit knees together on their 3rd degree sofa

and not ask Where’s the bathroom?

How else to feel other than I am,

often thinking Flash Gordon soap–

O how terrible it must be for a young man

seated before a family and the family thinking

We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!

After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?

Should I tell them? Would they like me then?

Say All right get married, we’re losing a daughter

but we’re gaining a son–

And should I then ask Where’s the bathroom?

O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends

and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded

just waiting to get at the drinks and food–

And the priest! He looking at me as if I masturbated

asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?

And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!

I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back

She’s all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!

And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on–

then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes

Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!

All streaming into cozy hotels

All going to do the same thing tonight

The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen

The lobby zombies they knowing what

The whistling elevator man he knowing

The winking bellboy knowing

Everybody knowing! I’d be almost inclined not to do anything!

Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!

Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!

running rampant into those almost climatic suites

yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!

O I’d live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls

I’d sit there the Mad Honeymooner devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy a saint of divorce–

But I should get married I should be good

How nice it’d be to come home to her

and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen

aproned young and lovely wanting my baby

and so happy about me she burns the roast beef

and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair

saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!

God what a husband I’d make! Yes, I should get married!

So much to do! like sneaking into Mr Jones’ house late at night

and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books

Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower

like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence

like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest

grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!

And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him

When are you going to stop people killing whales!

And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle

Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust–

Yet if I should get married and it’s Connecticut and snow

and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,

up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,

finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man

knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear not Roman coin soup–

O what would that be like!

Surely I’d give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus

For a rattle bag of broken Bach records

Tack Della Francesca all over its crib

Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib

And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon

No, I doubt I’d be that kind of father

not rural not snow no quiet window

but hot smelly New York City

seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls

a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!

And five nose running brats in love with Batman

And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired

like those hag masses of the 18th century

all wanting to come in and watch TV

The landlord wants his rent

Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus

Impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking–

No! I should not get married and I should never get married!

But–imagine if I were to marry a beautiful sophisticated woman

tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves

holding a cigarette holder in one hand and highball in the other

and we lived high up a penthouse with a huge window

from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days

No I can’t imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream–

O but what about love? I forget love

not that I am incapable of love

it’s just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes–

I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother

And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible

And there maybe a girl now but she’s already married

And I don’t like men and–

but there’s got to be somebody!

Because what if I’m 60 years old and not married,

all alone in furnished room with pee stains on my underwear

and everybody else is married! All in the universe married but me!

Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible

then marriage would be possible–

Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover

so I wait–bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.

Gregory Corso

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Ten months old! Lookit the size of that head!

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First of all, the playoffs are great this year! Lots of upsets-in-progress. Where’d the Celtics come from, they’re kicking Philly’s ass. I am totally rooting for Dallas, too, which is a little bit of a turnaround for me because I’m publicly mad about Kevin Garnett, but I’ve gone over to the Texas side, not just because of my acknowledged crush on Steve Nash, but also because of Dirk Nowitzki, Michael Finley (a fine Irish name), and, to quote Dave’s grandmother, “I love that little Nicky Van Exel.” Of course, it is totally conceivable that THE LAKERS WILL ONCE AGAIN RULE THE UNIVERSE. Take that you poor, sad, Shaq-fearing Knicks fans.

Secondly, there is a big difference between a nerd and a dork. Dorks are just geeks with bad skin, but nerds get the ladies.

And as an offshoot of my in-praise-of-nerds moment, I have a thing for chunky guys, too. Not superchunky, but Jack Nicholson in Chinatown chunky.

Almost lastly, here are two ways that you can make me commit suicide:

1. Go douse yourself in patchouli and then give me a big nasty hippie hug.

2. Go into a chatroom for stay-at-home moms and call your computer a ” ‘puter.”

And finally, Joe pointed this out to me the other day at lunch: why does the Catholic Church want to give child-abusing priests a second chance? If you weren’t a priest, and you were convicted of having sex with a minor, you’d be in prison. You stupid fuck. But the church, like the mafia, takes care of its own, outside the law. I could see a lot of cardinals losing their jobs over this. I can’t stand the church, but I might think about going back if we get a pope who believes in birth control and letting priests hook up in meaningful (or not) adult relationships (the key word here being ADULT).

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This morning on Sesame Street Robert DeNiro played a cabbage, explaining to Elmo that he was a great source of riboflavin. Yesterday Ray Charles and Tony Bennett sang the alphabet. And last week James Gandolfini, minus the fantastic goombah accent, told us that he was afraid of haircuts. God, I love Sesame Street almost as much as I love The Daily Show, the crew of Inside the NBA (minus Peter Vescey), and Veggie Booty.

Hold onto your hats! I’m knitting again! I’m going to finish the sweater I started for Jack three years ago if it takes every last ounce of strength I have. Just in time for summer!

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What is your porn star name? (first name = childhood pet’s name; second name = mother’s maiden name)
Uh, that’d be “Claudius Gustafson.” Absolutely nothing sexy about the name, which would force me to be sexier in person. The counterintuitive porn star.

What is your soap character name? (first name = your middle name; last name = the street you grew up on)
“Lois Alder” — very Peyton Place, n’est-ce pas? I feel an alias coming on.
(via glassdog)

Now I need your opinion: what’s a better domain name, www.fussy.biz or www.whatsthefuss.com?

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One of the most galling things about being in charge of the housework used to be picking up after Jack. He’d walk in after work, shed all his clothes into a sweaty, dusty pile, stretch his naked self on the couch until he felt like cooking dinner, and said clothing pile could sit there for upwards of two or three days before the spark of life would bring it to its knees and it would crawl into the laundry hamper in search of its own kind. My thinking being, we both worked, I did the laundry, so Jack could pick up after his own damn self.

Ah, but things have changed. On the long highway that leads to DomestiCity, one learns the rules of the road.

Then Jack, liberated from his clothes, steps out of them and, under the spell of some kind of amnesia that has yet to be identified by science, leaves them in a pile where they sit and molder for days.
Now I pick them up and cart them away, haunted by the ghost of Erma Bombeck.

Then We shared the shopping, Jack cooked, and I did the dishes.
Now I shop every day because the Peanut likes riding in the basket and flirting with the man behind the fish counter.

Then Vacuum cleaner? What’s that?
Now Once the Peanut stopped trembling with fear every time I turned the damn thing on, I could finally start vacuuming up all the lead paint chips that come down from the ceiling on a daily basis.

Then You couldn’t see out of the windows, they were so grimy.
Now So, if you want to look at a tree, go outside!

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Every time you masturbate, god kills a kitten!

(links via vituperation.com)

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