Cultural Achievements

I’ve only written one

decent joke in my life

so far. I say “written,”

although this is the first

time I’m actually

writing it down—

and “this” isn’t

writing, it’s typing,

which was how 

Truman Capote described 

Jack Kerouac’s whole 

output. I used to live 

two doors west 

of where the latter 

typed On the Road, 

which I read decades ago 

and now remember 

nothing about—maybe 

that wasn’t reading 

but looking. 

When the star 

of a play dies, 

someone has to bury 

the lead. That wasn’t 

the joke, it’s more 

of a quip.

Don’t be political, 

don’t be sentimental, 

don’t even try 

to be funny; 

take up pickling, 

knitting, or philately 

instead; do anything 

useful for a change. 

What do you call 

a dozen eggs 

if you’re anti-choice? 

A jury of your peers. 

I can never find 

the brownstone in 

the Village where 

Marianne Moore used 

to live, even though 

there’s a plaque, 

and it’s been years 

since I wandered 

into Patchin Place 

after midnight 

to look up at 

E.E. Cummings’s 

apartment, trying 

to impress another 

person I can’t remember. 

Yes, I’m aware 

of the awful 

things about him 

and many of his 

poems, but I still 

enjoy a cul-de-sac 

and catching incandescent 

light on my tongue 

when it spills 

through the windows 

of the dead. 

____

Alice B. Toklas said 

you don’t really know 

a book until you’ve typed 

and proofread it, 

and that you’ll never 

know a painting unless 

you dust it every day. 

Sometimes I am practical 

but mostly I’m absurd— 

I suspect Alice would

have praised both qualities 

while secretly preferring 

the former, but I have 

no idea. I miss resting 

my hands on the shoulders 

of my friends. Once 

I stood outside the gates 

of the building where Alice 

lived with Gertrude Stein 

and it felt like a cultural 

achievement, as if, 

had I found the nerve 

to ring the bell, history 

might have buzzed 

me in. Later that evening 

a friend told me 

he’d also tracked down— 

although his wasn’t 

a gay pilgrimage per se— 

27 Rue de Fleurus 

but that he’d actually 

summoned the guts 

to walk through 

the courtyard 

and into the building 

as one of the tenants 

was leaving for the day. 

I cursed my lack 

of nerve, but the risk 

of having friends 

with better stories than 

yours is that you end 

up liking the stories 

better than the friends. 

I wonder whether 

Alice preferred stories

to friends. The next

time I visit I should

sneak inside and ask.

Maybe I’ll offer

to help her with

the dusting—we could

start with the paintings

closest to the ceiling 

and work our way down.