{"id":1051,"date":"2009-09-13T20:58:54","date_gmt":"2009-09-14T03:58:54","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/anotherbb\/wp\/2009\/09\/jim_carroll_made_it_to_60\/"},"modified":"2009-09-13T20:58:54","modified_gmt":"2009-09-14T03:58:54","slug":"jim_carroll_made_it_to_60","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/anotherbb\/2009\/09\/jim_carroll_made_it_to_60.html","title":{"rendered":"Jim Carroll made it to 60"},"content":{"rendered":"

Just my own naked self and the stars breathing down, it’s beautiful.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

The Basketball Diaries<\/a><\/i> <\/p>\n

Some artists are expected to die young. Hats off to Jim Carroll<\/a>, one of their number. He stuck with it into his 60s and died last Friday, not of his volition. <\/p>\n

If only Dash Snow<\/a> had followed his excellent example. (Image via<\/a>)<\/p>\n

\"dashsnowjfk.jpg\"<\/span>Among many others, Seattle poet Jesse Bernstein<\/a> could have used more time. <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\n

More Noise, Please!
\n<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

I live on a street\n<\/p>\n

where there are many\n<\/p>\n

many cars\n<\/p>\n

and trucks\n<\/p>\n

and factories\n<\/p>\n

that pump\n<\/p>\n

and bang and\n<\/p>\n

grind all night\n<\/p>\n

and day.\n<\/p>\n

It is a miracle\n<\/p>\n

that I can write poetry\n<\/p>\n

or sleep or\n<\/p>\n

talk on the telephone\n<\/p>\n

or that\n<\/p>\n

my lover will\n<\/p>\n

visit me here\n<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

<\/p>\n

There is<\/p>\n

so much noise.\n<\/p>\n

Every few minutes\n<\/p>\n

a jet comes in low\n<\/p>\n

or a prop job\n<\/p>\n

swings down like\n<\/p>\n

a kamikaze.\n<\/p>\n

There is an airport\n<\/p>\n

at the end of my street.\n<\/p>\n

The new age people say\n<\/p>\n

that you choose\n<\/p>\n

all these things –\n<\/p>\n

choose the cars\n<\/p>\n

and trucks and\n<\/p>\n

airplanes – me and\n<\/p>\n

all of my neighbors.\n<\/p>\n

Maybe this is true;\n<\/p>\n

maybe we can’t live\n<\/p>\n

without\n<\/p>\n<\/p>\n

all this goddam noise.\n<\/p>\n

Maybe I need the noise\n<\/p>\n

to write poems\n<\/p>\n

make love and eat.\n<\/p>\n

I’m going to hang a sign\n<\/p>\n

out my window\n<\/p>\n

that says:\n<\/p>\n

More Noise Please!\n<\/p>\n

or:\n<\/p>\n

Thank You For Making Noise!\n<\/p>\n

Maybe we are the kind of people\n<\/p>\n

who need to have\n<\/p>\n

what we don’t want\n<\/p>\n

just to get along,\n<\/p>\n

to do the basic things.\n<\/p>\n

Myself,\n<\/p>\n

I could not sleep\n<\/p>\n

last night,\n<\/p>\n

and I could not\n<\/p>\n

close the window,\n<\/p>\n

either. I tried\n<\/p>\n

to tear the window\n<\/p>\n

out of its frame\n<\/p>\n

and put it\n<\/p>\n

in a closed position,\n<\/p>\n

banging and ripping\n<\/p>\n

with the hammer\n<\/p>\n

and a screw driver,\n<\/p>\n

standing on the window ledge\n<\/p>\n

in my socks\n<\/p>\n

three stories up.\n<\/p>\n

But, the window\n<\/p>\n

wouldn’t come out\n<\/p>\n

and the factory was screaming\n<\/p>\n

and the trucks were rumbling\n<\/p>\n

and the whole world\n<\/p>\n

was praying for silence\n<\/p>\n

and it was up to me\n<\/p>\n

to shut the window\n<\/p>\n

and I couldn’t\n<\/p>\n

get it down.\n<\/p>\n

I was just making\n<\/p>\n

more noise.\n<\/p>\n

A jet went by\n<\/p>\n

and all the people waved.\n<\/p>\n

Thanks, I yelled\n<\/p>\n

as the shifts changed\n<\/p>\n

without a lull in production\n<\/p>\n

at the big plant\n<\/p>\n

across the street.\n<\/p>\n

The workers lined up\n<\/p>\n

at the bus stop\n<\/p>\n

watching me with my hammer\n<\/p>\n

in the window.\n<\/p>\n

I put sponge stoppers\n<\/p>\n

in my ears,\n<\/p>\n

but I can’t stand those things\n<\/p>\n

for more than a few minutes.\n<\/p>\n

Finally,\n<\/p>\n

I put my head\n<\/p>\n

between two pillows.\n<\/p>\n

It is the same\n<\/p>\n

every night.\n<\/p>\n

I love it\n<\/p>\n

I need it.\n<\/p>\n

Without you I could not live,\n<\/p>\n

I would not have written\n<\/p>\n

this poem,\n<\/p>\n

I yell,\n<\/p>\n

the window dangling\n<\/p>\n

half on half off. <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Come Out Tonight<\/b><\/i><\/p>\n

Forecast in chrome and plastic.
\nTyrants breathing alloy of slavery, planet hunger, versions of Jackie
\nO. Sherry, Sherry baby, won’t you come out tonight? And the stars
\nwhisper like old blood at the edges of the body of night. She stood
\nwith one hand on the phone for four hours, poised as though only a few
\nseconds had passed. I watched her through the crack between the shade
\nand the sill. She waited for a forecast in human trembling, together
\nwith other important women. Come, come, come out tonight. The world
\nsuffers for her: The clock hurries like a terrified animal, then stops,
\ndribbling saliva. She has eaten chicken pie and bubblegum. For a month
\nthe Luftwaffe lived on raisins. Same with the French, after the war.
\nJackie O. received fresh oranges from John Kennedy. Silly girl. She
\ncannot put down the telephone receiver. She is waiting to receive my
\nbody of work. She wants to take it in her ear. A mottled flush builds
\nunder her cheeks. She eats Xmas candy while she waits. The telephone
\nrings and rings. I am not at home. I am with Jackie O. We are eating
\noranges from the President. We are alone on the roof of a Park Avenue
\npenthouse. Picture of Marilyn Monroe in my back pocket molded by heat
\nand sweat to the shape of my buttocks. You are gripping the phone
\nsmiling, eating candy, crying. I am with the important women, now. I am
\nsecretly an important man. Hang up the phone. I can’t dance with you,
\nanymore. Go to your freezer and get a popsicle. Go to your TV. Turn on
\nyour TV. You will see me and Jackie O. She will be taking it in her
\near, the body of my work. In the Planetarium. You will receive a
\nforecast. I will always be more important than you. You will never be
\nimportant enough. You will never be on the whip-hand of slavery, never
\nbe the one to wield hunger against humanity. Heaven will never be an
\nextension of your body. Your body will always belong to someone else.
\nThe picture of Marilyn Monroe flutters across the roof, steaming,
\nshaped like me. Shaped like my ass. The sky is filled with oranges
\nduring the war. We eat them. The president is alone in a room. He is
\nunimportant. As we eat his oranges the sky grows blacker. The moon
\nripens and turns red. It rots and is swallowed by the darkness. You are
\nstill by the phone. It is ringing and ringing, dead. Sherry, Sherry
\nbaby, won’t you come out tonight. It is completely dark. The earth
\nfreezes. You put down the receiver and go to the window. Come, come,
\ncome out tonight.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Just my own naked self and the stars breathing down, it’s beautiful. The Basketball Diaries Some artists are expected to die young. Hats off to Jim Carroll, one of their number. He stuck with it into his 60s and died last Friday, not of his volition. If only Dash Snow had followed his excellent example. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":{"0":"post-1051","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-uncategorized","7":"entry"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/anotherbb\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1051","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/anotherbb\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/anotherbb\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/anotherbb\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/anotherbb\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1051"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/anotherbb\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1051\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/anotherbb\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1051"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/anotherbb\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1051"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/anotherbb\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1051"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}