A squat man on Nostrand waved to me as he was walking along that major street as I approached Nostrand from my apartment street. I squinted because the sun was bright and rising from the direction in which I walked. Today will be the warmest day NY has seen this year--considering it's been only winter temperatures. Anyway, the story is that I walk quickly on my way to the subway in the morning and soon overtook this man. He whispered a mega-creepy "helllooo" as I passed him and I responded with "fuck you." So that's the kind of person I am: someone who says "fuck you" instead of "hello." There are other factors I'm not listing here--the demographic of the neighborhood and the machismo culture of some denizens. I'm not kind to creepy-eyeballing strangers on the street. In any neighborhood. I'm not sorry, but I wish I were a nicer person.
It's been hectic trying to maintain sanity while writing the best poem I can muster each day--but here are some notes for the last three:
"Notes on the Sport (i)" and "Buzkashi (ii)":
- - Both will bear the name "Buzkashi" with a number after it. Will likely do a trilogy--feels so lonely to just have only 2 parts.
- - Read a lot about the national sport of Afghanistan, which is like capture-the-flag or polo but with a headless goat carcass.
- - There's a lot of early Mark Levine in the first one--and come to think of it, it's impossible to not think of Brigit Pegeen Kelly's "Song"--even though I wasn't thinking of it at all while writing the poem.
- - (ii) is just another dialogue between animals. Horses! Goat! Maybe! I don't actually have any other poem that is a dialogue between animals; I'm just mean to myself.
- - Of course my obsession with Baba Yaga. Finally forced out a poem about it. Rough, hewn, needs more work, but dammit it was my Sunday and I wanted to enjoy the sunshine, spring weather, and just being lazy!
- - Didn't know that Baba Yaga can also refer to a trio of sisters who all have the name Baba Yaga. But they don't live together or hang out.
- - Even though I was lazy on this day, I read Gillian Conoley's Profane Halo, and that was the book I was sitting with while writing this poem.
- - Ugh, another mommy poem.