FUCK YEAH EILEEN MYLES

I think writing
is desire
not a form
of it.

—Eileen Myles (via modestporn)

Boston in the snow

the-end-of-art:

Shhh
by Eileen Myles

I don’t think
I can’t afford the time to not sit right down &
write a poem about the heavy lidded
white rose I hold in my hand
I think of snow
a winter night in Boston, drunken waitress
stumble on a bus that careens through
Somerville the end of the line
where I was born, an old man
shaking me. He could’ve been my dad.
You need a ride? Wait, he said.
This flower is so heavy in my hand.
He drove me home in his old blue
Dodge, a thermos next to me,
cigarette packs on the dash
so quiet like Boston is quiet
Boston in the snow. It’s New York
plates are clattering on St. Mark’s
Place. Should I call you?
Can I go home now
& work with this undelivered
message in my fingertips
It’s summer
I love you.
I’m surrounded by snow.

Eileen Myles

ravimangla:

I want to be challenged as a human being in terms of how many kinds of people I can be, how many ways I can be open, how many adjustments I can make. You have to, just to exist in the day. Everyday is this crazy little jungle gym of adjustments just to keep your sanity and keep functioning, and keep receiving messages and sending messages. I love the idea that a poem can do that. So it’s a little map of consciousness that says: this is what it is like to be alive.

- Eileen Myles

Lapse of Judgment

stopsasha:

Do you know
what the message of Western
Civilization is? I am alone.

—Eileen Myles, Not Me, “An American Poem,” p. 16

The beauty
of the story is that it happened.
—Eileen Myles, Not Me, “Holes,” p. 33

Everything
will be really
okay if you
don’t talk

—Eileen Myles, Not Me, “Promotional Material,” p. 100

__________

This is the lapse.
The cold moment
between wishing and getting,
in which children
wait for the breeze
to send the balloon
into space,
in which mothers suddenly
realize they’ve forgotten,
if only for a moment,
that they’re responsible
for someone other than
themselves.

Today I felt that lapse
but only because
I was somewhere
I wasn’t supposed to be
and I got caught.
And the lapse happened
and I opened my mouth
to say anything but
the words swelled in my throat
and died down like a wave
hitting the wall of a dam.
My silence was violent
but at the same time
there was nothing
at all, almost like it
didn’t even happen.

And all I could think of
was the story she told me
yesterday as we sat in the
kitchen trying to avoid the lapse,
trying to stay awake,
breathing in the glow
of dying Christmas lights,
and the beauty of the story
is that it happened,
and the beauty of the story
is that it didn’t happen to me.

juniro:

book prosperity, september 2014
51
Eileen Myles was one of the three women’s-‘I’-writing-at-semiotext(e) that Chris Kraus recommended during her loan-shark interview with GLU. I forgot my first edition of ‘Cool for you’ in a front seat pocket during my first first-class flight (I bought an upgrade for USD 130, they forgot to serve the free drinks and still, I was so excited that I lost a book. I never loose books). So I had & wanted to get a new one, just because the beginning was so great that I didn’t want to miss anything. And yes, I would have missed a lot.
Since then I’ve also discovered Eileen Myles Instagram account which is a piece of art itself.

juniro:

book prosperity, september 2014

51

Eileen Myles was one of the three women’s-‘I’-writing-at-semiotext(e) that Chris Kraus recommended during her loan-shark interview with GLU. I forgot my first edition of ‘Cool for you’ in a front seat pocket during my first first-class flight (I bought an upgrade for USD 130, they forgot to serve the free drinks and still, I was so excited that I lost a book. I never loose books). So I had & wanted to get a new one, just because the beginning was so great that I didn’t want to miss anything. And yes, I would have missed a lot.

Since then I’ve also discovered Eileen Myles Instagram account which is a piece of art itself.

durgapolashi:

Milk by Eileen Myles

I flew into New York
and the season
changed
a giant burr
something hot was moving
through the City
that I knew
so well. On the
plane though it was
white and stormy
faceless
I saw the sun
& remembered the warning
in the kitchen
of all places
in which I was
informed my wax
would melt
no one had gone high
around me,
where’s the fear
I asked the
Sun. The birds
are out there
in their scattered
cheep. The people
in New York
like a tiny chain
gang are connected
in their
knowing
and their saving
one another. The
morning trucks
growl. Oh

save me from
knowing myself
if inside
I only melt.

I just thought of love as travel. In your twenties you just kind of chug along, dredging up feelings as you go. It seemed like people then had a lot of feelings and you could get all bundled up like Eli had and brood with them for a while, or you could recoil entirely like I was doing (for professional reasons) and consider your behavior just art, grist for the mill. I read this book called Hunger by a Scandinavian writer named Knut Hamsun. He would just walk around Bergen chasing some girl in a red dress with big fat braids. Something drove men, and meanwhile they wrote about it. It seemed like nothing mattered but it was more absurd to do something than plain old existentialism. It would be embarrassing behavior if the person was real. But he wasn’t. He was a writer. The character was going to starve, unless he made money on his art. Which was basically my ideal. Nobody ever told me how to live, they told me what not to do. In all these books about the lives of artists that I read I mean they weren’t guidebooks but they took the simple beliefs in art and freedom and carried them to outrageous lengths. I could do that. Before I could write before I even knew how to spell I went out with my best friend Billy LeBlanc and we created a bunch of letters out of symbols we knew: sun, wave, stick—we made letters. We had so much to say to everyone and we pronounced our ideas carefully with crayons on paper and we folded them up and placed them in one mailbox on a house on our street. We were so excited because the silence of our childhood was over. We wrote. We sat on the sidewalk outside that house. We anticipated a response. We waited and waited. Then we simply forgot. But that sun, the first tiny symbol still sits there, blazing in my head.

—Eileen Myles, Inferno (A Poet’s Novel)

(Source: zoezinnia)

I write because I would like to be used for years after my death.

—Eileen Myles, Peanut Butter (via sarahlancastaaa)