Raymond Farr






Accolades for Doris Day et al



Marcel Duchamp is singing songs once sung by Doris Day. Under the high ceilings of an old warehouse in Soho converted to loft space he is curious: where is the furnace? A man in a day dream is writing a letter to someone disguised as Anselm Berrigan. I am in Soho riding the Blue Line into mean Greenwich Village. Yes, I am dead as Marcel Duchamp. I am still singing in movies. After all what else is there if walking on cold & belting one out can’t cure my insomnia? I got this look once. I guess he was enamored. It meant little to me at the time of my death. & Marylyn Manson is ripping off lyrics from someone on fire up here in Soho. His sources are ghost-like, the echoes of phantoms on a Hollywood sound stage: When I was just a little girl I asked my mother what will I be? & someone looking a lot like Ben Lerner replied via email: No one informed you? This francophone Greenwich Village is a spectacle of painted green doors. A séance of sudden entrances & exits. If I put on my tee & go out for a smoke then I stand on the roof where the pigeon roost is; where I am “the kid” now stealing the scene from a young Marlon Brando. Someone has dangled a mannequin’s foot from the branch of a tree & filled it with soot. Your’re all about the glam—I would use that to yr advantage. End email. I want to grow a demonic goatee or a cool looking soul patch like the one I saw in a picture of Noah Eli Gordon. One that says New York I’ve arrived I am raising hell & I am wreaking havoc. Things are more real here than they seem at first sight. The scrupulous hours are mirrored in words. Please take yr time & read what I’ve written. I am reading & rereading a poem by Eric Baus. What is this thing he has about the to sound, & the pertinence of tuned droves? It is currently dusk. I am eager for nightfall & the animus of that whiskey-blooded someone that loves my post-dada stuff. He is no one I fool with. Le garçon in the lobby says he has proof that Kennedy is alive & living in Harlem. I am running late, hearing his story. He showed me his proof: a hundred dollar bill he got from the “gov” boys “on the down low” he claims. No chains to hold him. A girl on the Blue Line is talking too loudly. She screams at her cell phone: I sd she sd: I want to fuck you with my long urban epic poem.  Why would I lie? What did you do with the files I downloaded you? I should never think twice about spelling or punctuation marks as long as there’s spell check. Or the vixen on Delaney Street who tells me she’s fertile & living in Brooklyn. Now where have you gone? The facts are convincing. I am one hungry carnivore. I riff off a line of a droll bawdy limerick: there once was a man on the Blue Line who thought he could dance and not feel a thing. I am contained & self-immolating but only in verse. I am dubious about the allure of poems whose subject is shit. Or the wanton allure of Guillaume Apollinaire. Should something go wrong tonight in mean Greenwich Village I will adapt with my reasoning. What I’m discussing is neither self evident nor a bird I disguise as a nature motif. It is a task I inherit. The one voice I sample like free cheese at the market. My subject is paramount: a life in NY.  If I go to the house of the all-mental wizards I indulge their cool tricks. It is only good business. If I let Don Amechi be the girl in my soup then my guide to the underworld has taken a sick day & never called in.