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inside the bookstore, there was a wonderful book to read all about hollywood-- oh, the glamor, the lights, the hushed tales, the insanity, the molestations, the marquees, the swim trunks, the "hollywoodland" sign, john gilbert, zazu pitts and dorothy gish and hundreds and hundreds of french poodles. french poodles everywhere! the woman
behind the counter had brown hair. her co-worker was black. "I'm going on break," he said. (in hollywood they say: "I'm going on break--I LOVE YOU!" they love you because: they're going on break, in hollywood. al jolson, on the other hand, was white.) I stared at the hollywoodland sign. the experience is just like red ants running up your leg in slow motion: in antarctica! a browser turns to his girlfriend: "if you're not doing anything, come over here!" "I am doing something," she replies. "what are you doing?" her boyfriend asks. "something," she replies, but I can answer that much better: she is standing near a book that is all about hollywood! inside of it, errol flynn is afraid of growing old, marie provost is dead, on her bed. rudolph valentino is saying "perhaps one more" while frances farmer is screaming in her bathroom, trying to stop the police from coming in, her feet wet with blood, propped up against the bathroom door. fatty arbuckle drops a bottle out of the window, pauses to hear it crash, and then smiles. "there goes the evidence," he says. outside of hollywood, there is a new copy of TONY BENNETT SINGS! with count basie, and one man, near by, who is thinking to himself: "it is all over." and it is. she still isn't coming over, and she is doing nothing. don't worry: nothing is ever all over. there are no new books on war today. or ever. further outside the wizard of oz is buried beneath a mountain of dark red dirt and aromatic film stock. an ambulance races by: too late; it's not over. no way will they get married.
there comes a time in which, no matter how important poetry may be, it seems more important to go out and buy throw pillows. sometimes it even seems more important to watch television, although you could argue that poetry is more necessary, but in order to write it, television must be watched. that's possible. "what's on tonight?" "nothing." well; it doesn't matter; it's still important. more important than poetry? no; the two cannot be separated, one might say, however, one might also say, it it is a particularly important day, or program, then yes, it is. if it isn't, or doesn't. I suppose it also depends on the poem. of course, if there is a poet on television, reading a poem, that's when life can become difficult and decisions can be excrutiating. it's not like going out in the ocean on a surfboard and getting all banged up and coming in and saying "forget it!" no, it is more complex. the t.v.? the poem? the throw pillow? all in one? totality? nothingness? eternity? etc.? yesterday, arthur miller was on television. they never once mentioned his voluptous wife, marilyn monroe. they talked about terror and fear. he seemed really old and tired. "do you believe in god?" "well, as I gaze out into the vastness of..." click. off goes the t.v. set. the little luminous dot in the center of the screen reminds me of everything that was good about childhood. even marilyn monroe. even throwing pillows. it is enough.
upon the
roof, what chance
is there that, that his
beard will be flecked me. that
we will discuss the "life
was easier, then." well,
I think that though,
he promises me that later,
supine again, and that time that's
sweet: what are
the chances that, how suddenly
it "do
you believe in love?" he will ask,
Ricky Garni is a graphic designer and bicycle collector who lives in Carrboro, North Carolina. His work has been published in Pif, The Quarterly, No Exit, The Poetry Project, Big Bridge, Stirring, Swagazine, Oyster Boy, among others. His most recent work is The Eternal Journals of Crispy Flotilla, a work in progress forever. |