Monday, August 08, 2005

"Death of Marilyn Monroe," by Sharon Olds from The Dead and the Living (Alfred A. Knopf).

Death of Marilyn Monroe

The ambulance men touched her cold
body, lifted it, heavy as iron,
onto the stretcher, tried to close
the mouth, closed the eyes, tied the
arms to the side, moved a caught
strand of hair, as if it mattered,
saw the shape of her breasts, flattened by
gravity, under the sheet,
carried her, as if it were she,
down the steps.

These men were never the same. They went out
afterwards, as they always did,
for a drink or two, but they could not meet
each other's eyes.

Their lives took
a turn—one had nightmares, strange
pains, impotence, depression. One did not
like his work, his wife looked
different, his kids. Even death
seemed different to him—a place where she
would be waiting,

and one found himself standing at night
in the doorway to a room of sleep, listening to a
woman breathing, just an ordinary

"God exists in what we create." Marilyn Manson

Image a million Marilyn Monroes--200 pound Marilyn, anorexic Marilyn, midget Marilyn, bearded Marilyn, child Marilyn, Seven-year-itch-Marilyn, Bus-stop-Marilyn, all of them pouting and breathless, circling Vine, Sunset--those famous Hollywood streets where tourists flock.

Strolling around, I suddenly realized it was August 5th, the anniversary of Monroe's death. Then the L.A. Times confirmed it: an article about some lawyer who wants her remains re-examined to prove that she didn't commit suicide. Apparently, he heard some tapes that MM's psychiatrist played for him way back and wrote down "almost verbatim" what she said. The one thing that interested me in her quotes is that she claims to have had sex once with Joan Crawford. Supposedly, Joan wanted more, but MM just wasn't into women as much as Joanie.

From e-news: "Crawford, who won an Academy Award for Mildred Pierce, "had a gigantic orgasm and shrieked like a maniac" during her one night of passion with Monroe. Later, Crawford turned nasty when Monroe rejected the older woman's advances for 'another round.'"

Mommy! Posted by Picasa

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

A poem before I go to bed

I guess I'll post a poem before I go to bed. Already took my pill and I'm starting to go down hill (how poetic, eh?). This poem will be in the August issue of The Sun, so I'll have to check a bookstore in L.A. to see if the mag is out yet. I'm quite happy to get published in The Sun as it is my all time favorite magazine--check it out if you don't know of it!


All night she cried, shrill squalls under the porch.
Now she sits in my driveway, matted, slick, shiny.
She won’t stop yowling. Hungry and in heat.
Comes to the front door, paws at the screen.
I won’t give her a dish of milk or a scrap of chicken.

The day is hot, humid. I pace the small rooms
wearing only my briefs. I want to touch myself—
envy those who can give in, do it alone
and feel satisfied. I clean, smoke, scream at the cat.
But she won’t go away—not today. She jumps
to the living room windowsill, stares in, wailing—
will not leave, will not stop, goes on endlessly.

EVIL Dorothy--Halloween 2005! Posted by Picasa

Off to L.A. tomorrow / learning to upload pics

Okay, I'm exprimenting with putting photos on this blog. I like this one of me, Kim, & Bryan because we had a blast at the participants' reading at Centrum a couple of weeks ago. I'll see if I can dig up a few more pics.

My partner, Phil, and I are leaving tomorrow for a wedding in L.A. This will be my first time there. Of course, we hope to hit some clubs--might be hard considering that we are going for a wedding. I guess there's a back door in every church, right?

Bryan Miller, Kim Addonizio, Jeff Walt at Centrum 7/23/05 Posted by Picasa

Moi  Posted by Picasa

Wow! I'm a blogger!

I came to blogging today via Peter Pereira's blog--met him briefly at the Centrum Writers' Conference in Port Townsend a couple weeks ago (ironically, we were in the same anthology, "Gents, Bad Boys & Barbarians" back in '94). He writes fabulous poetry, so Google his name and discover! I took a poetry workshop this past weekend at Hugo House in Seattle. The following poem by David Wojahn, which I'm attracted to, was used in the class:

The Assassination of John Lennon as Depicted
by the Madame Tussaud Wax Museum,
Niagara Falls, Ontario, 1987

Smuggled human hair from Mexico
Falls radiant around the waxy O

Of her scream. Shades on, leather coat and pants, Yoko
On her knees — like the famous Kent State photo

Where the girl can't shriek her boyfriend alive, her arms
Windmilling Ohio sky.
A pump in John's chest heaves

To mimic death throes. The blood is made of latex.
His glasses, broken on the plastic sidewalk.

A scowling David Chapman, his arms outstretched,
His pistol barrel spiraling fake smoke

In a siren's red wash, completes the composition,
And somewhere background music plays "Imagine"

Before the tableau darkens. We push a button
To renew the scream.
The chest starts up again.