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A poem I guess I wrote

I don't remember this poem at all. Cliff just sent it to me, saying I wrote it in his kitchen in 1980. It reminds me of when I came up with a scheme to pay people to write my poems for me. I think Wanda Phipps (?) still owes me a poem; or Jocelyn Lieu? I paid someone in advance (a dollar) that they never delivered on. Anselm wrote this brilliant little work, which includes family & poetic lineage:

Girlfriends of the future —
You didn’t marry Johnny Stanton —
I did.

But remember, I paid him (I hope I did) so it's MY POEM. He only wrote it. Anyway, here's a poem I wrote all by myself (apparently):

Asters Chrysanthemums & Chicken

Good we must be hungry
We feel hungry. Hunger is the only feeling
one needs. Life is a bowl of cherries
w/ steamed beans for dessert.
What’s for dinner asks James
Schuyler & the Revolving Doors.
Jim Morrison didn’t get dead he got
fat & hungry at the Chelsea Hotel
whistling don’t worry about the poem the poem
will take care of itself
as will: dinner—you didn’t forget dinner did you?
W/ matching plates & unknown purple flowers &
a pregnant drawing of ladies in Maine
steaming & baking in summer in Maine.
Cliff, the perfect host, fishes out the vegetables
& mmmm our forbearance is attacked—
deciding between art & food
always difficult—we choose—
tamari! To prolong anticipation
(don’t forget grapes—why does life
swirl so?) I never come empty handed!
Cliff is pacing & we’re both nibbling.
What’s for dinner?

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