The True Story of the KOFF Calendar
The True Story of the KOFF Calendar
Elinor:
Rachel, Maggie and I were in the Grassroots bar after a reading. Paul Violi stood across the sawdust floor, gleaming like Apollo.
“How the hell do you get that man out of his clothes?” Rachel said.
“Let’s do a magazine,” I answered.
“No one buys poetry magazines,” Maggie said. “They’re boring.”
“They would buy it if Paul Violi was in it, naked,” Rachel said.
“Violi’s too classy,” I said. “He’d never do anything like that. Let’s ask Brodey. He’ll do anything.”
We staggered over to St. Mark’s books, where Brodey was stealing books, I mean working.
“Sure, girls,” he agreed.
“All right!” we said.
“For $40,” he added.
“Jesus, Jim, why buy a cow when the milk’s so cheap?” Maggie muttered. We skedaddled out of there.
Who else would do it? we asked ourselves.
“Ted’ll do it!” I said.
“Yeah,” Maggie said, “You just have to rub up against him a couple more times.”
But no matter how many times I rubbed up against him, we couldn’t get that man out of his clothes.
“Let’s ask Frank O’Hara,” said Maggie
“He’s dead!” Rachel said.
“He can’t be,” Maggie said. “Wait a minute. Is he really? Then who was that I slept with last night?”
“I suffocate and I write I write/I write to please them”
“Meaningless. The main thing is you’re going to get married.”
Chemical Synthetic Biology