The Fortune-Teller, and: Why Are You Writing These

The Fortune-Teller

in memoriam Joanne Kyger

you have no body even when it hurts so muchsome matter has arranged to be you hasn’t itthen you go to the fortune-teller I went to sev-eral when young one even had a membrane overher iris but they didn’t understand me aswell as I did oh I was just curious Remember

“signs”   what remember   I remember my imag-ination houses I visit nonexistent or a grotto   noremember when Joanne got me to write a collaborativenote with her and leave it in a tree for Donald Allen whowas feeling bad   we rolled it up a scroll tied with ribbonmostly she made me shy at some point I re-

alized, though, she liked human niceness more than I— the scroll — she liked surprise birthday partieswhat I liked was her voice I never knew whatshe and Bob Creeley were going on about I was 25later she said everyone in Bolinas loved meI know that isn’t true and Philip loved her so much

did she really not know that? “batty inexor-able logic”   I’ve said all these things beforeLike when suddenly her aesthetic was chang-ing from Duncanism and Ted wanted herfor the New York School   some part of herjoined it remaining Joanne   but I remember that

moment when Ted, Bob, and Tom Clark all seemedto be courting her esthetically   she had suchbrilliance and one wanted her to write like oneshe would always follow her voice — and Lewis Warsh“she’s becoming more autobiographical” — no she wasn’tshe was doing mind/nature/voice partic-

ular to person/life finds expression as ‘that flicker’bird as mind of no-god drifting coastal momentYou were so beautiful and I’m remembering howright before Ted died he placed new books on shelfby bed, by Joanne, Joe Ceravolo, and Anselm Hollo and said“I have a generation”   b. 1934   I’m sorry I’m just crying

Why Are You Writing These

    to try to rememberwhat you is that nothing much happens for17 years it was richliving in isolation in a populous cityremember when I hated my neighbor because he was noisyI didn’t hate him I couldn’t look at him I wanted tokick him out   he held raves every weekendI called the cops a lot and worked with a certain policemanwho discovered my neighbor had been arrested in Bordeauxfor breaking furniture   he finally stopped paying renthad to leave then the gardienne and I gave thumbs-up signsacross rue des Messageries   she has since moved to ValenciaI’m interested in how totally against him I wasyou could say I have sensitive ears that simply reacthis mother came up from Toulouse once to help him cleanwe were overrun with mice she caught sevenone morning with glue traps excuse me she said I’m the mother ofyour neighbor who’s sometimes noisy do you have miceI tried to tell her I’d seen them slide down the gas-pole like firemenbut I didn’t have the French for that and French firemen don’tshe had a dream of moving to San Diego I don’t mind any of it except for my earsI was born receptive and sound shakes me upI have a poem in which the universe is like a vocal cordit must also be an ear infinite receptionmusic destroys thought poetry is it I couldn’t havebeen bothered to tell this story in prose   A decision wastaken after time began to maintain a prose universeI have been bored ever since and keep to myselfthough contrarily trying to save you from the materialsof your destructive lives masses of noise anythingto forget what and maybe I am only a nerveor am nerve if you could remember shut up and rememberor is it not remember I...