Yo-Yo Boing!

— My confusion is my statement of clarity. I live with plenty of identities within myself. And I want all of them to work. Poetry has been the useless art for too long. It’s been absent from life — history making — and The Daily News. It doesn’t matter how political it strives to be. To make a political statement is not to be politically alive. Poetry should jump out of the system like Tinguely’s machines — out of good and bad, beauty and ugliness, right and wrong. Poetry is fun. Poetry hasn’t been fun for ages. It should give pleasure. We’ve grown accustomed to unhappy poetry. My poetry is happy not to be sad. I steal pleasure from toys, movies, television, videos, machines, games — and put the fun back in function so the work runs like an engine that clinks and clanks, tingles and tangles, whirs and buzzes, grinds and creaks, whistles and pops itself into a catabolic Dämmerung of junk and scrap.

— Which one is the poet.

— They both are.

— Who’s reading tonight?

— The Rican.

— Poetry is a dead art, long dead. I want the here and now, coke and pretzels, junk food, fast food. I have to ask myself what I am doing here, listening to a Rican who can’t spick English or Spanish.

— I can understand Spanish but I can’t understand Puertorricans.

— We have a similar problem. I can understand English, but I cannot understand Americans.

— Scum of the earth. Destiérrenlos de la república. Sponges. Chameleons.

— So what. Zelig is a chameleon.

— Zelig is Woody Allen — and Woody Allen is a filmmaker and filmmakers count and poets don’t.

— When do we eat.

— I’m nervous. Did you see him. Over there.

— Who.

— Scorsese. What is he doing here.

— Wassila invited him.

— I should have known. I would have worn my Armani suit. Why did you made me wear this Mao Tse Tung outfit? It doesn’t fit me. I don’t belong here. I’m scared. Why did you take me out of my closet. I’m going to be so famous I don’t even want to think about it. But I’m not ready to expose myself. How dreadful to be somebody. To know that I was nobody. To feel so hurt inside — knowing that I was somebody — inside. To know I was so shy — nobody knew I was somebody — except some nobodies. To know that I was neglected, unwanted, and to be here, in front of Scorsese who’ll recognize my talent and make me a movie star.

— We’ll worry about it after it happens. In the meantime, try to shine.

— I’m not Madonna. I want my closet back. Close my doors. Do you think they really want to know who I am?

— Of course not. Some are here for a taste of Suzana’s salmon mousse and high art. Others want her movie contacts and coconut rice.

— Oh, my God. Let’s go home. Robert De Niro. What am I doing here. With all these mafiosos. Al Pacino. I’m gonna die. The Godfather himself.

— Whatever you do, don’t sound lyrical. Grumble guttural, sardonic threats. I’m gonna crack ya mudda fuckin head open. Smash ya god damn teef in. Mafia talk.

— Deny my culture.

— Mock it. Roll your “r”s rougher like you’re mad.

— I am mad. What am I doing here?

— Sssh. Remember, bring out the killer inside you.

— Macbeth has murdered sleep. I can’t remember my lines. My hands are bloody sleepy, bloody merry, bloody mary, with scotch on the rocks and my heart just stands still for Al Pacino.

— I told you we had to practice.

— I don’t have to practice. I know it by heart.

— Don’t improvise like you did the last time, incorporating cheapshots into the text.

— You made me so angry I had to read what I was feeling inside which was stormier than the way I wrote it. I wanted to see if you really felt the part. Don’t look offended by your lines. I didn’t invent these dialogues. They’re your words, Mr. Nice Guy. But you cringe with beet red shame whenever I quote you. I know it’s painful to be ashamed. We all feel ashamed sometimes. You thought we had it all rehearsed, but if I let you, you would steal the show.

— Steal the show! Everyone can tell you wrote it. You keep all the best lines for yourself.

— Todo se improvisa, de alguna u otra manera. Pero yo sólo veo una inmensa carretera, donde corren los carros sin parar para nada, y yo estoy esperando un milagro, o una solución a mi dilema, tengo que cruzar la calle, y no hay semáforos, por favor, habrá alguien que tenga la cortesía, de parar, o de dejarme cruzar, o que todos paren, por favor, un instante, y me dejen cruzar, o me lleven a la carretera del destino, donde haya un farol por la noche, y el aire polvoriento y las candelas chispeantes, como el niño que en la noche de una fiesta, se siente entre el gentío, ¿dónde estoy? Miro de lado a lado. Soy un niño perdido entre el gentío de esta fiesta, y asoma su corazón de música y de pena. Así voy yo borracho, melancólico, lunático, siempre buscando entre el aire polvoriento, y las candelas chispeantes, como el niño que en la noche de una fiesta se siente perdido entre la niebla, y el aire polvoriento y las candelas chispeantes, y asoma su corazón de música y de pena.