Alice Notley

Peridots of Kings

There is no culture anywhere, in these countries I almost
live in; though there is history. And there was once — but
now only monolithic companies. I drove through
town — nothing left — a two-story ragged portion of the
Desert Theater; another building almost torn away, leaving
a structure with scant paint, couple of windows. Our
culture. I don’t want to live in one of those in the
past future perfect tense. It isn’t that I don’t want to live.

In the south of France, Rousseau, the contemporary poet,
will now read. He sits at a table, facing a black window
that reflects him. I stand behind and stare at his image
intently: he is so plain. A woman staples her poems together —
then he cries out in a note. What a musical genius. We are so
fortunate to have him, whom no one cares about. I don’t,

I’m my own poet. You don’t need a poet; you don’t need
anything but a big store. You don’t even need yourselves. And
that’s fine. I guess there wasn’t anyone to write to. I
did it for the universe of ghosts; half coyote, half motel.