Glitz and Glamour

I put my feet to the pavement,
walking these streets I push it daily
but I ain’t get paid yet, so there’s no food for the baby.

And lately, I’ve been worried for my safety
Living in the lions den, they all want to replace me.

My home’s a mess, its falling to pieces
A concrete cage that’s covered in cracks; my roof is leaking.

Weekends are the bleakest,
that’s when I weaken from all the hunger so I start selling to weak friends.

In secret, I’m scared of lucid nightmares-
Cops and canines coming to get me (they never fight fair.)

But I’m here, leading a life that many might fear-
Making a living for all I hold dear.

Promise me you’ll never make the same mistake I did
Promise me you’ll never mention this to my kid
Promise me that when I cease to live,
All of the things I’ve left behind,
Won’t rise up and plague your mind too.

Look at me, I'm just like Raymond Carver...blah blah blah

One afternoon Wes was in the yard pulling weeds when Chef drove up in front of the house. I was working on a needlepoint on the front steps. I saw Chef walking towards Wes, but he acted like he couldn’t see me. Wes saw Chef walking across the yard and stuck his hand out to shake like they always did, but Chef swallowed him up in an embrace instead.
Wes dropped the gloves he’d taken off when he saw Chef approaching and hugged him back. I didn’t want to interrupt them so I just let them be. It looked like Chef was about ready to cry so I put down my needlepoint and went inside. Two friends like that should be left alone.
Inside the kitchen I had a half pitcher of lemonade I’d made for Wes, the condensation weeping all over the sides of the glass container. Chef and Wes walked in shoulder to shoulder just as I was finishing pouring everyone a glass. Hope you guys like lemonade. None went for a glass so I put the tray of drinks down. Everything alright Chef? But Wes answered instead. Chef had a drink last night for the first time in years. Chef couldn’t even look at the tumblers I filled up with lemonade for them. Well that’s not a big deal. We’ve all come a long way. Chef we can help you. He shook his head as if I was missing the point. I put down the drinks before something happened to them.
It’s on account of my mother passing away last night. Wes nodded because he understood. I knew it was gonna happen. I wish it hadn’t. I’ve held off for so many years it wasn’t even something I thought about anymore. I don’t think this will kill me but it sure is trying its damndest to. I came here because this house was the where I first seen light at the end of the tunnel. It’s worked for you but I can’t see that it’s working for me right now. I should leave you alone, this is my problem not yours.
Wes had been nodding the whole time as if he knew. I could tell that he was ready to tell Chef what was already in my mind. You’re gonna be alright now Chef. Edna and I appreciate your helping us so we figure the least we can do is help you. This place has been fantastic to us, but we don’t think it’s the place for you. As he spoke I could see the cabin in my mind. When we first got married a cousin of Edna’s gave us a place he had up in the mountains. It’s nothing more than a few logs put together the right way. You’re a good friend Chef. I can tell you right now that if you’re looking for a place to keep yourself together, our cabin is a great place to understand what’s going on right now.
Chef nodded and put his hand on Wes shoulder. Thanks Wes, however I’ve already got a place to stay. Coming here was just another thing in a long line of silly things I’ve done since she’s been gone. Thank you for offering me your place and all but I don’t think it’s for me. Wes nodded like he understood but he reached out for me anyways. He wrapped his arm around my waist to emphasize his point once more. Have faith Chef. I’m going to be around for as long as I’m going to be around. I tell you that I know you’re going to make it because you know that what you’ve done is silly today. My offer still stands. This isn’t the best place to mourn someone the right way. Edna and I know where that place is though. If you need it, we’ll be here.
Chef said he understood. Thank you so much but you’re wrong if you think this wasn’t the right place for me. With that he wiped his face and embraced us both. I hope you feel better I said. Thank you guys Chef repeated.
Wes and I walked Chef out of the house and to his car. I’d forgotten the yard still had a big pile of weeds in it just waiting to be burned. Wes dusted the Chef off seeing as how the two had been pretty inseparable since he’d gotten out of his car. I waited for Wes on the front porch. Goodbye Chef! Wes leaned into the driver’s seat window and whispered something into Chef’s ear. Chef nodded solemnly. He patted Wes on his shoulder before pulling out. When Wes came back I didn’t ask what he’d told Chef. That was between the two of them.

A Case of Emergency

Here it comes, the splash of cold water on my face
It’s like I’m startling myself into the new day.
And who say that the sun is on its way,
when I’ve been waiting all my life,
and I can tell it’s bound to be late.
I’ve waited patiently for you to make the final move
To tell me that you’re up and that you’ll wait for me to call;
but the heavens say, you’re waiting for the fall
I know you wanna stall
Dream of things I might have said, but never meant at all.
I AM HARDLY THE MAN
That has your remedy
So when I see you sneak away today
I’ll turn and ask no one in particular if they’d like something to eat.

Night Shift

It was the third rainy night in a row, and Cruz had just about given up on keeping the office floor dry and puddle free. I wasn’t about to complain, I’d been soaked for hours and I could care less what the floor looked like. From where I was sitting, I could hear her in the backroom folding more sheets for the rooms while watching Primer Impacto, a show composed of half news and half tabloid. It had been at least 5 minutes since the last walker had come in with a customer, so I figured I had at least ten more before they would need me to open the gate again to let them out.
The news soon cut to a commercial break, so Cruz walked out with a sheet in hand and started folding it on the counter where the log book was. “That last girl looked like Carly; did she pay you up front?” I shook my head. “It’s her first lay of the night; she’ll get it to me on her way out.” When she heard that, Cruz stopped folding and just stared at me; I knew she wasn’t gonna like the answer, which is why I hadn’t said anything on my way back in. Cruz pointed at me “We don’t do that “first lay, then pay” thing anymore Carlos, these girls are gonna have to pay up front every time now, you heard Hassan.”
Last time Hassan had been here, I had to tell him about a girl that had gotten pinched while walking the streets and left her tab unpaid while she was still locked up. “No more handouts.” He’d said. “Get their money up front, or else they’ll have to do their business in an alley somewhere until they can get enough for a room.” He’d had a point, but Carly was a regular, so I cut her some slack until word got around that we had changed our rules.
“Yeah, I heard. Soon as she comes back out, I’ll tell her we’ve changed the rules, and then she’ll tell the rest of the girls when she sees them outside…that’ll equal less work for me; sound like a plan?” Cruz shrugged and went back to folding her sheet. “I just don’t want any money problems again. Let her, and all the girls after her, know that we gotta do it Hassan’s way from now on, got it?” I nodded; Cruz was just talking to get it out of her system, she was the half of me that worried about things. “So did Hassan mention anything about a raise to you, or did he just collect and run again?”
I didn’t have an answer for Cruz. I’d actually been avoiding the subject for the last couple of days because I had promised to get an answer from him, but made the mistake of mentioning the arrest and tab to him first. “I can’t give you a raise this month Carlos, that prostitute’s tab has yet to be covered and I’m still paying off that main gate we got after the smash and grab…” The smash and grab referring to a group of teenagers who’d broken into some rooms a week prior to Hassan’s visit and had resulted in him buying a automatic gate for the motel, a gate I now monitored each night to let the street walkers in and out with their customers.
“Hassan said we’d have to wait a bit because of the tab that girl left open, plus he hasn’t finished paying off that fence yet…” I could tell she was angry, but I wasn’t expecting her to take it as calmly as she did. “Ugh, I knew he’d find some reason not to pay us more this month, Hassan is such a cheapskate!”
Cruz went back to where the television was announcing the marriage of two Mexican soap opera stars and got another sheet from the pile to fold. She continued talking “At least he finally bought that fence like you told him to ages ago…all it cost him was a few broken windows and a couple of television sets!” She was right; the night that little incident had happened I’d been at my mom’s place grabbing dinner for the two of us and had come back to find Cruz still hiding under the front counter, white as a sheet. She’d been cradling the cash box and the two by four we used in the office to prop open the window, when I walked in and heard her crying on the floor. In all the years I’d known her, and all the time since that incident, I’d never seen her as helpless as she looked right then. I went out and bought a gun for the place the next day, and even though we had this fence up now, I still haven’t left her alone here since.
A tap on the window behind me told me that someone was trying to get out; sure enough I turned around and saw Carly adjusting her bra strap standing by the side door to the gate. “I’m gonna go let Carly out.” I yelled to Cruz as I walked towards the door. “Don’t forget to tell her about the money up front!” I heard from the back as the door hissed to a close.
Carly and her customer were standing by the gate waiting to be let out. By now the rain had subsided, and the guy standing next to Carly now had a bad case of the awkwards. Had he been driving I would have simply pressed the lever to let the gate open, but he was a local and probably rode the bus to work. I unlocked the smaller side door on the gate and let him out while Carly stayed behind to pay for her room. She handed me a wad of cash “Here you go; I also put in an extra $20 for whatever Lucy owed you. I don’t know when she’s getting out of lockup, but I figure can at least make it so she isn’t in the negative with you guys when she gets out.” I took the money and gave her a smile “I didn’t think I’d be seeing any of this money ever, thanks.” Carly, who wasn’t used to smiles in her business, simply waved it off. “No problem, I’ll be back in a few; it’s bar night tonight and I feel like there’s gonna be a lot of guys out there looking to settle…”
She started to walk off when I told her what Hassan had said about having to pay up front from now on. She stopped for a second, looked back, and waved that off too “Don’t worry about it; we’ve all got our pimps. I’ll tell the rest of the ladies about the change, but don’t be surprised if a couple show up without cash on them.” I let Carly through the gate and thanked her “Thanks; I’ll see you when you get back.” I watched her walk down the street and turn the corner; I wish things were that easy all the time.

Oh My Darlin

Oh my darlin, oh my darlin
Oh my darlin, Clementine
You have gone, but not forever
Somewhere out there, you must hide.

Rolling over, rolling yonder
Clementine, you never cease
Missing zest, and missing laughter
You’re alive still, I believe.

Oh I miss you, how I miss you
When the seasons start to change
Clementine, fruit of my labors
How I wish you’d never strayed.

When you ripen, and you grow up
On my door you’ll knock someday
Let me in mom, let me in dad
I was lost, but found again.

Oh my darling, oh my darling
Oh my darling Clementine
Let me hug you, let me squeeze you
Till the juice runs down my leg.

I Don't Wanna Know

You tell me that you got a mind of your own,
And you don’t really mind that I’m gone,
Well guess what baby girl?

(I don't wanna know)

The last thing I wanna hear
is you bitchin bout your new boyfriend
And how he can’t compete,
or how you never feel complete
I know you think I’m sweet but

(I don't wanna know)

The last thing I wanna hear,
Is you bitchin bout your disappointments.
Leave me be,
Remember why I had to leave?
Maybe cause I never made your MVP...

(I don't wanna know)

The last thing I wanna hear
Is “Listen baby, have you gotten over me?”
The answer's maybe,
And if you persuade me
I’ll laugh a little less
Before I ask “Are you crazy?”

(I don't wanna know)

The last thing I wanna hear
Is “This is all your fault!”
It took me all of seven days,
and all of seven ways to repel you
And now I think its only fair I tell you...

(I don't wanna know)

The last thing I wanna hear
Is you askin if I miss the old days.
I know its hard to believe,
But you are a bother to me,
Why do you bother to speak?

(I don't wanna know)

The last thing I wanna hear
Is you asking bout my new girlfriend.

Anselm Berrigan

Bio

Anselm Berrigan was born in Chicago, Illinois in 1972 to poets Alice Notley and Ted Berrigan. Although very little is mentioned of how much time he spent there as a child, it is known that soon after his parents moved to New York City where his father found work editing various art magazines and books. Over time, Anselm has given his parents much of the credit for his early education, naming then as one of the primary reasons he was able to read by the age of four. Of these years, very little is talked about, other than the death of his father Ted Berrigan when he was only 10 years old.
It is possible that for his own motivations, Anselm chose not to talk about the impact this had on his upbringing, but what is known is that he got along fairly well with his stepfather (British poet Douglas Oliver.) Anselm also mentions that early on in his education, he would read the poetry of his own parents (particularly his father) in an attempt to understand them better. Academically driven, primarily through the efforts of his parents, Anselm attended New York’s famous Stuyvesant High School where he soon found himself reading and writing more than he could ever have thought himself capable of. Although initially a shy and quiet type, Anselm ran track his junior and senior year, making friends and enjoying their company at school more than the actual education he received there.
In 1990, Anselm attended SUNY-Buffalo where he took up working for their school newspaper. That paper, which came out three times a week in a circulation of 12,000 people, is credited with producing some of his first works of poetry. Originally a reporter for the paper, Anselm began to feel limited by the kind of writing he was doing for them, so he began keeping a notebook where he wrote some short fiction as well as his first attempts at poetry (his first poems being written his second year at college.) Following this, he completed his MFA program at Brooklyn College where he met and studied under poet Allen Ginsberg.
After completing his program Anselm moved to San Francisco, California where he didn’t know a single person, in an attempt to center his life on poetry. Working odd jobs where he could, he fell into the poet community out there continuing his writing until he found work as the artistic director at The Saint Mark’s Poetry Project in New York in 2003. He was artistic director there until 2007 and he is currently working as the co-chair of the writing program at Bard College MFA program and is a professor at Wesleyan University.

Works Written
On the Premises, 1995.

They Beat Me Over the Head With a Sack, 1998.

Integrity & Dramatic Life, 1999.

In the Dream Hole, 2001.

Zero Star Hotel, 2002.

"Pictures for Private Devotion", 2003.

Some Notes on My Programming, 2006.




Moods

Fast-
(All his thoughts come at you real fast)

Fire escape slashes feet dude
But thanks for the intro to nudie
Mags & staying all day sitting

To be pointed in the direction
Of acid nail-biting and told to go
& to go, sad, away from the repeating
-Opening to “Jim Brody”

Questioning-

Who cares?/I should have been, but I was what, thirteen?
-“Jim Brody”

Do I argue for reality’s underpinning to dissolve?/Is faith in stability preferable to the truth?
-To manage the inevitable with aplomb”

Do I feel like an animal staring up at the dental light?
-“To protect my piracy”

Structural-
(He makes use of the structure in which a poem is written to convey message and purpose. He will either write a poem in a long thin (like a newspaper) column, or he will write in “wisps” or other such structures to emphasis the shape and structure of his writing…examples include):

“To Protect my Piracy”
“A true account of talking to myself on the #4 line”
“Ode to the Paranoid”

Rambling-
(In his column style poems, he usually finishes the sentences he starts on one line, in the second or third line after it.)

I answer horn first time
For weeks from can & say
"In the study with a leadpipe"
To Graham & ask him if he's feeling
Flexible. I am feeling Shelley
& an outline. Red lines over black
-“The Pursuit”

Closure-
(Oftentimes his poems are built so that you always find a form of closure at the end, if not a tie-in comment referring to an earlier statement he may have made within the poem)

I answer horn first time
For weeks from can & say
"In the study with a leadpipe"
-Opening to “The Pursuit”

My leg. I want you autonomy
In the conservatory with a candlestick
Where I will be just and mild
and free and wise.
-Ending of “The Pursuit”

Style
Anselm Berrigan doesn’t consider himself a student of any particular movement or style. It should be noted however that his father (Ted Berrigan) was a member of the second generation of the New York School of poetry. Anselm does admit that he read his father’s poetry early on in life and that following those years he started to get a sense of where line breaks and other important factors to his writing should be. His mentor, Allen Ginsberg, is a also a well known beat era poet. Beat era poets tended to write more about their rejection of American values, experimentation (with drugs and sex), and freedom. Not too many of these things filter into Anselm’s style, however bits and pieces of all of these influences to show in his writings. Because of the various poets that he has come into contact with, his style is so varied and unique to him. What can be noted is that stream of consciousness is a regular writing style he implements, as well as internal dialogue.

Fellow Poets

Anselm Berrigan is a real hard artist to pin down in terms of impact because he is simply too young. He is 36 years old, which puts him on Earth for quite a bit, however, in the world of poetry he still hasn’t put in enough time to have other poets specifically name him as one of their influences.

Anselm has recently admitted to being influenced by his own father’s writing (Ted Berrigan.) What started as an attempt to get to know his late father a little better, became a study in poetry for Anselm when he began piecing his own poems in a style very much like Ted’s. Ted (who did meet Frank O’ Hara) Berrigan and his spur of the moment, stream of consciousness style definitely appealed to a younger Anselm who was attempting to make his way into the world of poetry, and the conversations that he holds in his mind (and later writes down) become real mental exercises when you sit down to try to follow along.

Anselm has also mentioned that he took a liking to poet and author Langston Hughes. Although Hughes’ style is very much tied into his Harlem, New York years, it form is very much unique to him. Langston’s poems are often based on the rhythms and languages of the contemporary blues and jazz, not necessarily something Anselm emulates, but he does show cognizance of. If anything, Anselm often knows what the rhythm for the way people read his poems will be, and he writes and breaks lines in ways as to read contrary to that.

Works Cited
http://epc.buffalo.edu/ezines/alyric/berrigan.html
http://www.coconutpoetry.org/aberrigan1.htm
http://www.chicagopostmodernpoetry.com/aberrigan.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Langston_Hughes
Berrigan, Anselm. Zero star hotel. Edge Publishing Company, Washington DC. 2002