PICK OF THE WEEK: Charlie Getter + Deb Olin Unferth
Mon Feb 14 11, Makeout Room
This week at The Rumpus, Charlie Getter recited all new poems and Deb Olin Unferth succeeded with a few excerpts from her new book Revolution: The Year I Fell in Love and Went to Join the War (read an excerpt here).
Deb Olin’s delight in the random details that define a situation and upon which humor hinges, quirk, and understated delivery was the perfect match to Charlie’s dramatic braggadocio’d acquiescence and redoubled froth prayer. I got the feeling first that I was doomed to make the primal lovable … and then rejoiced that every choice makes me more human. Check it out with full text below (line breaks are mine):
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“A powder blue ribbon of silk”
A powder blue ribbon of silk
Holds my heart together
A powder blue ribbon of silk
Connects my soul to my body
If the former exists
Or the latter matters
I can feel the wind in my face
And I can see the reflection of the sun
Off the sea
And I can mark time with a clock
It can tic
And it can toc
But it can’t talk
Time has nothing to say
The sea is angry
Why do we go anywhere else
Where is there to go
Why does the blue sky call us so
If my last vision could be
A park in the sunshine
Would that be enough
For eternity?
I once saw a blur of red stares
And dim light
And that might have been my last vision
But time had more in store
For me
I sat on a floor
With my heart racing
And willed it to go slow
And walk away
Every day
We have a choice
But that’s a lie
Do we
No
Nor a chance
Nor a voice
We have a lie
And sometimes that’s enough
A powder blue ribbon
Of silk
Holds the earth to the sun
And the moon
A powder blue ribbon separates the sun
And the sky
And the sea
Is it that every thing has to revolve around each other
It revolves
And then it comes apart
Hands are shuffled
And cards are dealt
And hands hold hands
That determine their luck
And hands
Hold hands
That let go
Of rails
Of reality
And is it to be
And I don’t know who
Where what
Or when the wind blew
Or if it decided that it would forsake us
Again
The moon burns an angry orange
Shouting something lunar
And I open
And close
My eyes
Too too often
To focus on the yellow
Pad below me
And I wonder how life and death
Became intellectual topics
And I wonder how the moon
Can look so ugly
And I wonder why my eyes
Hate my own face
And I drink
And I drink
And still feel
Thirsty
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“Don’t Go to Oregon”
We know why people go to Oregon
It is the same reason
That people go to Vegas when their parents won’t let them marry
Or Sweden when they’re over their gender
Don’t go to Oregon
Delaware is the land of the cheapskate
Canada the country of the cowardly
Argentina collected Nazis
And Switzerland the gold they stole
Pennsylvania collected Quakers
And Maryland the Catholics I’m told
By my books
Don’t go to Oregon
Stoners’ eyes almost twinkle
As they board the plain to Amsterdam
Golfers’ eyes do the same as they stroll the jetway to Scotland
Muslims are required, if they can
To stand by a rock in the hot hot sun
Don’t go to Oregon
Though you can
Though you can
Living is a selfish act
And loving is that too
I’m selfish for living and
Selfish for loving
And loving the living
In you
So please
Though I know
Though I know
Only so well
Don’t go to Oregon
Though you can
Though you can
Please don’t go to Oregon
Though you can
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“Proposals”
George may have proposed to the Queen of the Peasants, but let’s get this straight: he proposed to me first. It was my one and only marriage proposal if you don’t count the four others, which I don’t. George wasn’t the first man to propose to me; the first man to propose to me was declared insane a few days later and committed to a hospital in Chicago. I went to visit him in the special room for visitors. We sat at a white table with our hands in the table rubble, coloring books paper coffee cups, and he became so distressed that afterward his family asked me not to come back. In any case it was more like a threat than a proposal: He looked at me in a menacing manner and said that I must marry him. After all, he said, he was the father of my child. That doesn’t mean much, I said, if there’s no child to show for it.
It’s dead, he said.
It wasn’t a baby yet. It’s not a baby if it isn’t before it is.
You killed it, he said.
You can’t kill it if it never was.
The second man came along a few years after George and I broke up. He and I shared an apartment in a small town full of snow. On the day he proposed the door to the apartment had a hole in it, because I had kicked it in. And the door was new because I had kicked in the first door a week before and the landlord had replaced it. And the TV was new because the man had hurled the old one across the room.
But the moment of the proposal was a calm one. He and I were standing at the window looking out at the parking lot below. He had been married three times already. He had children all over the country: children of women he had been married to, and children by women he hadn’t.
Isn’t this something you’ve tried before, I said.
It always works, he said. It’s fun, too.
I proposed to the third man. I wasn’t involved with him anymore. I had left him after he had left me after I had threatened to leave him. We were sitting alone at my aunt’s kitchen table; my aunt was out of town. I said let’s get married. Because somehow in that moment I had realized that everything had gone outlandishly wrong and had stayed that way for a long time, years, and was getting worse, and if I could just marry this nice, quiet man here, suitable, kind, I might be able to set things straight.
Half the time I don’t know what you’re talking about, he said.
Half the time all the time, I said, or half the time right now.
He thought about it. Half the time. He left his drink on the table and went outside.
The fourth one I married. Civil war. Nine months later I was back living my normal life alone.
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“Good Ideas”
Afternoons on the landing at the brothel I closed my eyes and prayed. What did I pray about? I prayed that everyone on earth would get what they want. But then I think about that and decide that was an awful lot. People want so much. So, I prayed for these people to get these particular things that I named in my mind. Or at least for these particular people that I name to get these particular things. Or for them to get them when the time was right. Or when God wanted them to have them if He did. If God didn’t want them to have the things they wanted, then I didn’t want them to have them either. And it was probably wrong to want them. So I prayed for their souls, instead. I prayed for us to not want what we want but to want what He wants, whatever that was. How was I supposed to know what he wanted? I’d never even prayed before that year. I prayed to learn what he wanted somehow, not to have the knowledge of God out of the hubris that would come with it, but to see dimly the plan, or at least the section of the plan that involved me and the people I knew. So I could pray for the right things. Or at least, I prayed, let me pray for the right thing accidentally, by coincidence, or mistake.
My faith has the side benefit of sending my Jewish-theist family into fits of despair. In my house, Judaism referred to an abbreviated Passover and a few jokes about candles around Christmas. Once I announced I was a Christian, my family whipped themselves into shape; they joined a temple and went every week; they enrolled my sister in Hebrew School; they celebrated holidays they didn’t like or exactly understand, found a menorah in the garage. They put up a mezuzah, and my mother joined a Jewish study group for women. They made my sister have a traditional Bat Mitzvah, complete with a great grandmother’s lockets and chairs the air. By that time I had slipped back into my atheist upbringing, but they weren’t taking any chances. Yes, those days of faith were fun for the whole family, but, bit by bit after the trip, I walked across the dance floor and sat back down with my family, where I remained, like a wallflower, patting my hair and watching the walzters, admiring the grace of some, the awkwardness of others, but no, I will sit this one out. Long after I stopped being a Christian, it was clear my brothers and sisters weren’t going to become Christians either. My mother and father went to temple less and less, and finally they left off altogether, and everybody forgot about it. Except my sister. She is the last to forget; she still can’t forgive me for Hebrew School. Three days a week I had to go, she says. While everyone else was having fun. One day, you and your God will pay.