Make A Living As A Poet: Michael O'Keefe's Book Party for "Swimming From Under My Father"

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Michael O'Keefe's Book Party for "Swimming From Under My Father"

Michael O'Keefe's Book Party for "Swimming From Under My Father"
At the Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery, New York City, Sunday Oct. 25th, 2009, 4pm EST.

With special guest readers: Mary-Louise Parker, Michael Lally, Portia, and Saul Rubinek .

Watch it live on the WEB!

http://www.rfg3travel.com/bowerylive103008.html

Thrilled "Weeds" star Mary-Louise Parker will be at the BPC today to support her friend Michael O'Keefe and his first book of poetry!

And course Lally is one of my favorite poets!

More on Swimming From Under My Father here

Here are the closing lines from O'Keefe's poem, "Campaign Plans,"

Ol’ Roscoe smiled and returned to his task,
which was to mop the cheap linoleum floor
sending waves of ammonia and loss to the heavens.

It looks to be a great event. Hope you can make it down or get a chance to catch it live on the web.

Death by Taxi

In New York you die in taxis.
A little yellow death.
The honking of crows.
Black puddles, putrid flapping.
Only there are no crows.
They must be pigeons, blacking up.
They honk convincingly and the traffic
begins to flow and breathe again.
You are in his arms. He is loving you alive.
You see the light. It’s a green light
For God’s sake try to make the light.
It’s flashing and the crow dogs are barking
in their little park runs.
Only there are no dogs.
They must be jackals in wiener dog coats.
Your death will make the news.
The paperboys are swooning,
“Extra! Extra!”
“You’ll never guess who died in a taxi!”
Stuck in traffic unable
to get to even the closest
Starbucks. Only there is no coffee.
It must be dead black water,
like an old Doobee Brothers song
surprising you on the radio.
But that’s not radio and the cabby
isn’t singing to you, he’s singing
to his cousin about the Knicks in Urdu.
He keeps shouting the chorus,
“Knick Knock, Knick Knock.”
He has no idea you are dead.
Now here’s the riddle:
do you tip when you’re dead?
You can’t take it-whatever!
Still it seems a little rude,
to keep driving
into the subway token sun,
slipping through its square hole,
while all your passengers
are rattling a hoarse mackerel breath
almost a whisper,
“Horse Head Nebula”
and step on it.

Make A Living As A Poet

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Michael O'Keefe's Book Party for "Swimming From Under My Father"

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Death by Taxi