Who Is Trixie the Trasher? and Other Questions - Softcover

Miller, Jane

 
9781556595400: Who Is Trixie the Trasher? and Other Questions
Softcover
ISBN 10: 1556595409 ISBN 13: 9781556595400
Verlag: Copper Canyon Press, 2018

Inhaltsangabe

“Her lusher effusions gain astringency from an achingly palpable heartbreak, and from an increased awareness of technology, commodity, politics: swoon meets zoom.” ―Boston Review

“Jane Miller is by far one of our best poets writing today . . . Miller is like the NASA space station of poetry: out of this world, yet of it, and still looking down. From her peculiar and important vantage she blows us kisses in the form of images that hit their mark.” ―Lambda Book Report

Jane Miller’s eleventh book, Who Is Trixie the Trasher? and Other Questions, is a hyper-political and brassy collection of poems that questions authority, sexism, ageism, and romance in the face of mortality. Differing from her earlier poems in their range and urgency, this collection retains Miller’s signature lyric voice, personal yet thrilling in its associative leaps. Her intimate language illuminates and soothes our current trauma―especially as experienced by women―where nightmarish reality must answer to human dignity.

. . . Would you ever catch her at home, washing
her panties before dawn, her dishes,
leveling with you in this sexist world
of male gaze and female fuckability, everyone looking
for a little empathy in the end? . . .

Jane Miller is the author of eleven collections of poetry, including A Palace of Pearls, winner of the 2006 Audre Lorde Award. She has received numerous awards and fellowships, including a Guggenheim fellowship and the Western States Book Award. She currently resides in Tucson, Arizona.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jane Miller is the author of eleven collections of poetry, including A Palace of Pearls, winner of the 2006 Audre Lorde Award. She has received numerous awards and fellowships, including a Guggenheim fellowship and the Western States Book Award. She currently resides in Tucson, Arizona.

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Who Is Trixie the Trasher? (excerpted) Is she a faceless woman using a bidet and chamber pot bending her backside to you, legs splayed, maybe masturbating, naked but for stockings and heels? Somebody who is all over art history and also in dire need of money? Wait a wicked second. Death, dear reader, is the correct answer, a metaphor that darkens and makes more common the young lady in the bathroom who needs time to freshen up and dab on a bit of face cream and cover her stretch marks and bites. She’d rather go listen to the radio in bed alone, sing off-key, and sip whiskey slowly. Trixie, dressed for business as a rare disease, attack of the heart, nerve-blowing stroke, etc., doesn’t require your imagination to fuss over her, nor a car and driver, nor some drunk fuck on the street with a money clip who doesn’t know what he’s getting into, and can’t wait. As a writer, by definition having direct access to you here, however briefly, I grant you every little thing is passing faster than he can find his dick in his dark suit. I’m talking about the operator who has been eyeing the poor soul; she’s on the street because frankly it’s time for another Joe to blow, and while he’s diddling with his ignorant self I’m doodling that he’s about to die and doesn’t realize, because today, Death is walking the street in tight jeans. Lousy with feminism, I’m investing her with adamantine fury that she turns big-time on you because you’re a manifestation, too, of something before willpower or after that only the idea of mortality and maybe the work of art, can affect. I’ve chosen the figure of a denizen who’d as soon read the news as hunker down with anything hotter than a coffee. Eventually, I’d favor nothing more than to get the girl off the avenue. Should I put her in a factory, or at the head of a company in something Chanel? Unless you see yourself, you need to stop staring from your plush booth at Trixie, who just spilled her espresso on her inner thigh and cried out, Holy Shit. Why debase/erase you? I’m assuming everybody has it in her or him to dehumanize, so I mash this up and invite a call girl, a synecdoche, in fact, who helps me with my hoax poem to fell you like a wall bed. The power I can give her is her dignity, by her gaze and upright gait distanced from craving, which leads to suffering, which leads to craving, and you paying with the loss of your best self. For my money, she’ll be sensible, compassionate, and you won’t see her coming to deliver your final blow. I hate to see you suffer. So, hastily, right when people all over this town have their top down, it’s a Saturday, could be you’re idly reading poetry, holy crap, you’re pinned by Trixie to a stretcher that has never, nor will ever be thought of as sexy, and whose ancient calling to haul you away is everywhere about as perverse as all the places you’ve taken this faceless make-up. I sew your handler into tight pants and hope in a moment of enlightenment that you also see her limping and holding her jaw in one hand― she hasn’t the time or money to get to a dentist for a root canal or Walgreens for gel pads for her feet. Everything changes the moment we take pity. Her tooth is killing her, giving her her humanity, a provisional victory, and goddamnit, it hurts. Would you ever catch her at home, washing her panties before dawn, her dishes, leveling with you in this sexist world of male gaze and female fuckability, everyone looking for a little empathy in the end? What bit can be learned about a culture that objectifies death and sex equally, in an alley or a painting, while a human being― empowered, devoured, tired, and crying― too hungry not to hurry after work, drops her hamburger and fries on the sidewalk? I’m ashamed. Art may be by nature manipulative, exploitive, and fallacious ―not ever necessary before food, water, shelter, and a friend― but our most distinguished self is not simply anyone on the cheap who stereotypes, rather more likely a woman or a man who loves life like nobody’s business. You’re being made to think on some level scaffolding collapsing that art is a dirty trick, some creep who crashed and trashed your place, or in this case your person in this poem. In my farce, my amiable, unfortunate gaffe, a deconstructed model delivers the all-powerful consummation that catches you off guard, bang! with a hammer to the head, a cartoon image, to be sure, perhaps not a gratuity that you can afford, but in your wildest imagination if it means anything, you realize what is represented in art doesn’t exist. If there’s a murder in a poem, no one calls the civil guard, which means forms are free to lead like lampposts down a city block through perversity and degradation to our higher selves. We get there circuitously. For another thing, Trixie’s cracked a tooth, bringing the goods to you, so death and beauty are going to need to be redressed. Your own hot, hot grad student in a tight knit, in a dirty corner of your mind, lies beside you in the afterlife of this work, appealing to your common sense, a Trixie the Trasher who queer and straight in some measure desire and post-coital admire for having the balls to make hard cold cash quickly. I could have made Death a God, aa razor, a jailor, not the one you are preternaturally drawn to, with the aches in her foot, mouth, shoulder, her lips all glowy, skin snowy, hair piled to one side, etc. Pay no mind. The metaphor loses capacity after I’ve had my way with you― art is cruel, razor, a jailor, not the one you are preternaturally drawn to, with the aches in her foot, mouth, shoulder, her lips all glowy, skin snowy, hair piled to one side, etc. Pay no mind. The metaphor loses capacity after I’ve had my way with you― art is cruel,

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Verlag
Copper Canyon Press
Erscheinungsdatum
2018
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1556595409
ISBN 13 
9781556595400
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
88
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