new poetry and poetics edited by brian kim stefans - Arras.net

And in her eyes you see nothing,
No signs of luv behind the tears
Cried for no one...
-Lennon & McCartney
When I turned on the television, Stil Donaff was hosting a special edition of his
show dedicated to remembrances of the writer Lemmingsbolt by celebrities who
actually knew him. Had made his acquaintance before he poured his brains out.
There was also Miss Joyley who, like one daughter and one niece of the fierce
novelist, sat in a special set of three turned-around chairs near the darkened front
of the stage so that the audience couldn’t identify them as they made their candid
comments. She, of course, didn’t care if people knew who she was and had
never met Zemmingsbolt... but was grouped with the other two young women
because she too had been the daughter of a suicided celebrity and could talk
about what it was like, at least, from her point of view.
“Miss Joyley,” I began, but then remembered I had left in the kitchen the AV
cord that runs into the television set. There I was holding up in mid-air the small
cam-fone like a dandelion in the middle of my living room, one coiled root dangling,
attached to nothing. I typed out a quick note of what I was about to ask
her, then skipped off through the hallway to the kitchen.
As I made my way back along Sixth Avenue I heard the studio audience’s sighs,
oohs, and sexual curiosity for the man that Stil had introduced as the just resurfaced
son of Lemmingsbolt, mother undisclosed. A bit livid and world-weary
about the cheeks and jawline, eyes precociously rheumy. “Albert”, nonetheless,
gave the immediate impression of regal rearing. He wore turquoise silk around
his neck, a white dinner jacket, and anchor-shaped gold cufflinks. His black hair
was combed back with dandily greased Macedonian or Kushan spirals to the
ends of it. He was just back from the Mediterranean, he said very slowly, where
he had been watching the filming of a documentary about the wreckage of
Napolean’s flagship “L’Orient.” “Ahh yes,” said Donaff, “adjusting his tie and
winking at the audience.” Both the audience in the studio and the young crowd
watching the big AKAI board with me in Shinjuku laughed out loud.
As the camera pulled back to watch Lemmingsbolt’s son take his seat beside
the host’s credenza, the previous guests had to all bounce down one spot and we
got to see who else was there: Doilee, George Plimpton or Peppard, and Rod.
The lack of relevant literati stunned me out loud and, holding the cord ever closer
to my waist, I renewed my return to the living room, determined to call in an