Tag: Jillian Weise

by Jillian Weise

She’s had it easy, you know. I knew her

from FSU, back before she was disabled.

I mean she was disabled but she didn’t

write like it. Did she talk like it?

Do you know what it is exactly?

She used to wear these long dresses

to cover it up. She had a poem

in The Atlantic. Yes, I’ll take water.

Me too. With a slice of lemon.

It must be nice to have The Atlantic.

Oh, she’s had it easy all right.

She should come out and state

the disability. She actually is very

dishonest. I met her once at AWP.

Tiny thing. Limps a little. I mean not

really noticeable. What will you have?

I can’t decide. How can she write

like she’s writing for the whole group?

I mean really. It’s kind of disgusting.

It’s kind of offensive. It’s kind of

a commodification of the subaltern

identity. Should we have wine?

Let’s have something light. It makes

you wonder how she lives with herself.

I wouldn’t mind. I would commodify

and run. She’s had it easy.

I can’t stand political poetry.

She never writes about it critically.

If it really concerns her, she should

just write an article or something.

I heard she’s not that smart. My friend

was in class with her and he said

actually she’s not that smart.

I believe it. I mean the kind of language

she uses, so simple, elementary.

My friend said she actually believes

her poems have speakers. Oh, that’s rich.

I’m sorry but if the book is called

amputee and you’re an amputee

then you are the speaker.

So New Criticism. Really I don’t like

her work at all. I find it lacking.

from The Book of GoodbyesFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2013
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

by Jillian Weise

Skype is on your Mac on the table

next to the Malbec and ashtray,

next to the book that cost 120 pesos,

b/c you had to have Ulysses

in English. You’re in some town

where your name doesn’t exist

and they rename you, so you’re

never sure who they’re talking to.

The screen rings. It’s Big Logos.

He downloaded the thing. First

a garbled voice comes from

the keys then, “Can you hear me?”

By the power of gods in Estonia,

makers of software, haters of fees,

the voice says your name and he’s

not anyone, though anyone from

Terre Haute to Rome can Skype you,

he’s someone you know or knew.

Which tense to use? Then his face

appears by the folders, the clock,

the Firefox, his face on his body

in his bed 8,000 miles away

and he says, “Give me a hug.”

You both grab hold of your machines.

You show your eyeballs to each other,

all impressed with yourselves,

as if your eyeballs have not always

been on your head. “Good to see you,”

he says. “Can you look in my eyes?”

You try but you’re always looking off.

It’s sad but it feels good like you love

reading Ulysses and you love being

alone near the Martial Mountains.

He plays a cover of Bruce Springsteen

by Lucero, and what a rad band.

This is the life. This is your friend,

your friend from way back, though

let’s be honest, he was more

than that, and not to trouble you

with facts, he’s still more than that.

You’re so hot for technology.

This is better than IM. You can’t

get enough of his pixels and it must,

please tell me, it must add up,

all those hours spent listening

to Lucero, who is okay but,

let’s face it, not Springsteen,

and all those hours spent watching

Hulu together and now look at you,

staring at your screen, which is

not ringing, which will not ring.

It has always been just a screen.

You can’t blame it for that.

from The Book of GoodbyesFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2013
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

by Jillian Weise

The last time I saw Big Logos he was walking

to the Quantum Physics Store to buy magnets.

He told me his intentions. He was wearing

a jumpsuit with frayed cuffs. I thought the cuffs

got that way from him rubbing them against

his lips but he said they got that way

with age. We had two more blocks to walk.

“Once I do this, what are you going to do?”

he asked. “I wish you wouldn’t do it,” I said.

Big Logos bought the magnets and a crane

delivered them to his house. After he built

the 900-megahertz superconductor, I couldn’t go

to his house anymore because I have all kinds

of metal in my body. I think if you love someone,

you shouldn’t do that, build something like that,

on purpose, right in front of them.

from The Book of GoodbyesFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2013
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.