N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 3 : S p e c i a l E d i t i o n
L o n g P o e m M a s t e r p i e c e s o f t h e P o s t b e a t s
EILEEN MYLES
Basic August
Summer is endurable
you suggest &
I picked it up off
a wall in Cambridge
today or better
when the chlorine
drips from my
hair down my
back & the
five birds in
New York start to sing.
Brooklyn is just a
ride away. I’m hungry
again! While the ponytail
drips down my back &
I pull on the black
shirt that’s wet from
the pool, but so
what, it’s August and
the six birds in
New York sing back.
I wish I could
pull a devil mask over
my face. To be in-
visible & assertive,
to scare the hell
out of you. When
you pat my hand
take me all wrong,
make me squirm.
When I feel myself
falling backwards
in my skull
I’d rather race
outside, red &
heavy browed &
scare your thoughts
your pity to
kingdom come.
I’d laugh.
Or I have learned from
novels that you can
stare right through a
person. All the midriffs
of men I have bored
through this summer
in the sweaty subway
which is like
an intestine. I make
the beady eyes vanish
by boring through
like a train
or skipping upstairs.
You have never
wanted anything
I chide myself
as I am walking
through the tunnel.
Does anyone
ever “choose”
life. The ambitious
ones who get
in with both
their sneakers
soaking wet &
their big fangs
wanting all. Privately
I whistle, privately
I’m private. Do we
pound our fists down
like this and go
now, now I must
have for I am
truly here, Mankind!
Is Life perhaps
just another thing
that men own,
like the world
so not having
a greedy antenna
hanging between
my legs I don’t
know how to
insert myself
powerfully in
anything’s
path. It is
mine tonight,
and shut the
feeling out,
like a light
and in
the dark, get.
I like summer
cause it’s
just so hot.
There’s no excuse
for such an incessant
daily lack of
relief. The daily
woman with
her breast hanging
out and her
pussy in the
middle of
everything
bundled up
private. For I
must go to
work tonight
and in this
idle unfanned
hour I’ll sing
my song. Destiny’s
woman at last
in her chair.
If you saw
my heart hanging
out like the
devil face
grinning & pumping
away sweating
blood & grimacing
going ow ow
ow! Kind of
a furless
pussy, my heart.
My mother
tells me I am not
her son, my
sister says
that was not my
crime, being foolish
scaring the
mother with
the ugly daughter
mask, hands like
worms reaching
out to the
mother who
has just been
stone so
long that
how could
the mother
bear the
daughter, but
she did
the beautiful
ugly one
of summer
nights. Hungry
like this snake
of a city
reduced to
living stone.
Can you describe
in two syllables
the real
condition of
woman. Like hell!!
Would you
strike
your mother
with a stick
call her
bitch, witch
would you
beat her
till she
bled real
water from
her mouth.
The woman
made so many
men afraid,
her incredible
power & smarts.
They froze.
So one guy
said let’s tell
her she’s
incredibly
ugly, her
power, her
strength
her sexuality,
life coming
right out
of her loins,
let’s call
it pussy
let’s give
her a hysterectomy
let’s tell her
it’s so uncool
for girls
to be strong
let’s tell
her she’s
really ugly.
Fear freezes
me daily even
in this heat.
I pay a
bill I feel
better. I live
along. I get
ten bucks in
the mail. Heigh
dee ho. If
I could have
any wish
since I’m happening
since I’m really
seeing here
since I do
& listen. I believe
all the women
could be strong
& stand up &
lock hands
& bond. We
could save
ourselves
we could save everyone
we could be
here tonight
& I am.
I’ve got a
lot of good
ideas but not
one that
will get me
through
August.
OK, I admit
it. I’m a
devil-worshipper.
In a tourist
trap in Salem
Mass my sister
& my lover &
I did
a little dance
on a round
red circle
marked w/
names like
Beelzebub
& Company.
I have
the most
interesting
pattern of bouncing
shadow leaves
on my wall
at night. Through
a grid of
shadow window
gate, I
the grown child
wait for
sleep to
overtake me.
In my
devil dance
I began
to look at
the world. On
14th Street
steam pouring
up out of
the street,
steam-pipes
says Sue
that’s why
14th Street’s
so bad,
bumpy, or
else she
paused while
we looked.
It’s the gates
of hell.
Down Christopher
Street where
gayness is going
strong, screaming
drunken but
the pouring of
red-faced
horny souls
down the
street to
the river
where it’s also
black & hispanic
& we walk
out on a
Pier, I keep
wondering if
it’s okay for
David to be
down here
w/ a woman.
I usually do
this in the day
I explain
remember the
day that
Tim showed
me & Jane
the innards
of the fallen
down pier
building where
everyone stumbled
at dawn looking
for one more
blow job
I suppose.
I been
here, after
I chased
or actually
stumbled after
a girl at
Armageddon,
a club, or
saw you
plunge into
an icy
January Hudson
unlike now
inhaling David’s
cigarettes
watching Maxwell
house, not
even sighing.
When it’s time
to move
we both
know.
You the goddess
of 1988 take me
especial places.
Through burgeoning
Union Square
where I left
my bike &
you criticize
the way I
walk reminisce
about Larry
and you
teach me
about going
slow, each
foot, solid
on the ground
feel it first,
head up, a little
tilted, shoulder
back, clench
your pussy
lift your
butt, let
your shoulders
sway, arms
high. We
should be
in rhythm
it’s how
you walk
with a
person. Are
you ruining
me as we
approach our
2nd year
together &
I’m comfortably
in training
to be right
for you
or us, though
I like the
way I
walk alone,
the love
affair
I never
share but
you with
the itsy
bitsy light
of Gramercy
Park it’s
great we
still kiss
at corners
in recognition
of trees &
the good
air they
exude. Hot-ter
tomorrow,
a Korean
man assures
his friend.
Friday night
we take
our walk.
The streets
“Dom Perignon
Khaddafy”—you
reminisce
about heroin.
Jean Michel
died this
week. Under
thirty. I
haven’t
failed to
be walking
breathing poor,
the fashion
ensemble into
the artichoke
sculpture junk-yard
of Gas-station,
2 Boots is
closed so
we walk to
the hat &
talk about
Zoe who
lives near
here, &
share this
pork with
orange that’s
just sensational.
I’m either
in Mexico
or Italy
the unmitigating
heat. Saturday
we stayed
in your
house w/the
air conditioner
on. I came
out from the
movies on
Friday night
my bicycle
was gone.
By the
time we
got to Cooper
Square we
found two,
one for fifteen
purple w/footbrakes
you paid,
a thirty-five
dollar one
came fully sprayed
3 gears all
good. Do you
have the
money. Get
them get
them. An argument
began while you
were getting
change, the
guy was drunk
Russian, he
was talking
about his
mother which
attracted other
drunks, boys
with tall
beers in
bags. You returned
with a vanilla
coke & we
rode to
the park. A
puerto rican
boy in a
sleeveless
blue shirt was
being lead
away by
the cops
already
in hand-cuffs
his mother
fat in an orange
dress, crying
had to be
pulled away
as they stuffed
him in a squad
car. She didn’t
want him to
have a record.
He didn’t do
anything everyone
said, he was
so good
looking you
said. He
was. This
is in Tompkins
Square Park.
We saw busloads
of cops at
5th ave, earlier.
Now they were
here. All the
young politicos
in the park
chose to move
when the cops
wedged them
in along
with us on
our new
bikes. Hey,
there were
people with
cards saying
they were
someone
or other. I
always think
the Village Voice.
Lots of cameras.
One little cop
who looked like
Benjamin, you
know, the one
who played
Ghandi, said
what’s a nice
girl like
you doing
in a place
like this. I
live here. We
both turned
away. I was
separated
from you.
There was a
fat white cop
who was real
sweaty, we
were all sweaty
and he had
a billy club
and he had
this very uncomfortable
“dare me” face
on like a
grammar school
nun. I began
to feel scared.
We dispersed. Pol-
iticos kept
turning on us.
What are you
doing here w/
those bikes. They
live here too!
Out on the street
the cops followed
us out—an
organization of
blue. The street
sang “Go home
Go Home!
Go home!”
The cops were
mad they
wanted to
fight. A skinny
young man
wore a pig
nose & a
Florida cop
uniform. I
think I saw
a girl get
clubbed. I’m
waiting for
the worst
but I
always feel
bored. The
most exciting
violence I
ever saw
was at
high school
dances.
But Basic August
just for now
is a private
demonstration
the writing
on the wall
the teeshirt
says: Free Kelly Michaels.[1]
Kelly’s father
comes in and
feels her
breasts. This
is appropriate
behavior in
the families
of devil-
worshippers. There
are leagues
of parents in
America dedicated
to getting the
devil worshippers
out of the
day care centers.
It’s obvious.
Either women
should just
stay home
& take care
of the kids
or else the
corporations
should do
the day-care.
They will
give the
kids to
the corporations
early. Give
the kids
to the corporation
not the
devil-worshippers.
The corporations
can stamp
the child
early. On
her wrist
or in her
heart.
Kelly Michaels
made the kids
spread out
in star shapes.
Little naked
white kids
in New
Jersey
worshipping
the devil by
making these
weird patterns
in the music
room upstairs.
Oh she
would drip
menstrual
blood on
the kids &
shit on them.
She made
them clean
it up, the
three or
four year
olds. There is
a very clear
case against
Kelly Michaels
and not
much in
her defense.
No one came
forward for
her because
you know
everyone would
probably think
that you
were a devil worshipper
too if you
said she was
okay & you’d
never work
in the child
care field
again. I
see lots of
people who
look like
her all the
time in
the street.
I think
she’s sending
messages out.
I think
she needs
help. There
were no
character wit-
nesses because
well she
lived with
a girl
and if that
came out
everyone would
know she’s
a child molester
because the
two words
lesbian and
child molester
are pretty
synonymous.
This would come
out in
court.
She has
that witchy
little face,
she wears
those
little witch
gloves with
the open
part. She
complained
about
the pay &
poems
were found
on her notebook
cover which
were very
incriminating
which
confirmed
her crimes
she committed
against the
little boys
and girls
who are
now permanently
damaged. They
will see movies
forever of
her big
bloody tampax
dripping on
their faces
during naps.
Who could
forget the
smell of
her
shit.
Let’s burn
Kelly
Michaels.
Artsy
creepy
degenerate
probably only
rumored
dyke. Probably
a bisexual.
Too young
to know
better. Very
popular w/
the kids
actually.
They say she
also picked
up a tree
& a car
and played
with a
child’s private
parts under-
neath. There
are known
warning signs
if your
child has
been hurt.
Plus they
were given
an anatomical
model, &
if the
kids
play with
the dick
& the
tittie
well something’s
amiss. And
no kid
knows
about
a clit.
They have
not yet
been intro-
duced
to its
major
pleasure.
They just
think it’s
a piece
of gum.
Kill
that
murderous
bitch
Kelly Michaels
who was
lead
through
the prison
in front
of all
the men
who scanned
her in
silence
a witch
in shackles.
She might
fly free
one of
these
nights &
her &
I can
talk.
Kelly can
I show
you
my poems.
I know
you didn’t
do it.
[“Basic August“ was originally published in Eileen Myles’ Not Me, Semiotext(e), 1991. Reprinted by permission of the author.]
Eileen Myles (born 1949) is an American poet and writer who has produced more than twenty volumes of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, libretti, plays, and performance pieces. Myles moved from Boston to New York in 1974 "to be a poet." She quickly became part of a group of younger poets surrounding St. Mark’s Poetry Project. In 1984 Myles was hired as the artistic director of St. Mark's Poetry Project. During her tenure she performed "An American Poem" for the first time at P.S. 122. In this poem, Myles fictionalizes her identity and claims to be a "Kennedy", catapulting her into a position to comfortably address politics in her work. Since then "An American Poem" has been filmed and shown in film festivals all over the world, screening in New York and other major cities. She has been named “the rock star of modern poetry” by BUST Magazine and “a cult figure to a generation of post-punk female writer-performers,” by Holland Cotter of the New York Times.