I think it might be fun to do a competitive face-off between some of Bernadette Mayer's Sonnets and W.S.'s.
But Mayer's book has less than half the number of sonnets W.S.'s work holds.
Oh well. She's funnier. They both are drenched in sex...both are adamantly bisexual...or omnisexual.
Maybe I'll do it.
They're pretty evenly matched on her best poems.
She's a very intricate artificer in this book...she's fully empowered at this point and the culture has begun to drive her insane so she's funny...poets only start to be worth something when they get to the breaking point.
Well, that's the Romantic myth anyway.
Let's not shit all over it today.
We have tomorrow for that.
I have a first edition (Bernadette, not W.S. Don't be stoopid!) with a dedication written by Bernadette in purple crayon (probably borrowed from one of her kids and inscribed on the dining room table). It's dedicated to "Daniel." I wonder which Daniel?
Because there, are, like, so many....
I've never seen somebody write so neatly with a crayon.
It's kind of spooky.
She had to have used that little crayon sharpener that's built into the 64 crayon box before writing this. She wrote an address and phone number and everything.
Daniel must have been "good people."
No, I never dialed the number.
I'm not creepy like that. No. I'm not. Shut up.
I don't even call my own mother.
Why would I call somebody else's?
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