Larissa's Blog


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I embrace you, dear shadow, my revelatory friend;
dear suicidal impulse; todayI dream of the parapets above
A la Vielle Russie, andof splattering near the Plaza
where Woody Allen wooed young girls,leaving a bit of me
on the Strand Bookstand,near the park and the seals —
but this is too vibrant and real. Better to find myself alonein a porcelain tub
with chamomile bath oil(as if I needed to be calm;
there is eternity for that),listening to Verdi’s Requiem,
holding a razor, or better still, to poison myself with small
scored pills, avoiding arsenic and the Bovary traps
of indigestion, detection;best with caplets, red carafes
of wine or Guinness brew —(who wouldn’t want to quaff a few?)             What catharsis there is in the dive,             the gesture, the infinite jest,
the slash, the brush (its own fire),the dance with death?
Ah, this:as I flirt, you draw near,chingon to mychingada
bite my ear, stop my breath—who else could do that? Dear friend of ferment,who unearths the worms
that enrich this blissful human soil,promising the end of eternal roil:
Te quiero, my Mescal, my absinthe,my blue cyanosing corps, my Mayakovsky,
my you. . .  Was this a mistake? Is it too late . . . ?You bite my ear, take up my rear, whisper:

Harlem Line (Found Poem)

Auction: Sin City cabaret. Signs and awnings,
contractor R. Zin Huq. All educated people
know the Bible. Do you know Joe? St. Cat-
herine’s School, St. Elizabeth’s School, St.
Nooses Prep, high. (On chalk-drawn perime-
ters, young girls walk long hexagrams, facing
each other, daring, proud.) Ripple effect. Sto-
rage unlimited, captivate every sense, win the
jackpot, then go. Skate keys. Real estate.
Where open houses become closed. (All hope
like a lottery, forgotten mules, this store, this tic-
ket out, this, this isn’t Independence Day.)

Ten Reasons to Get Behind Hillary Now

1. If Nixon had an enemies list, what will Trump have?
2. Trump doesn’t believe that humans change climate. During his presidency, polluters will flood the atmosphere with carbon, heating the ocean surface, which will rise and likely flood New York and other coastal cities by 2050.
3. Trump will surround himself with flatterers for advisers. The ego displays you see now will be known as Trump’s insightful and tactful days.
4. If you protest his actions, you will be arrested. No rights, no lawyers, no phone calls, maybe beating and torture. Because he can. And has said he will.
5. Paul Ryan schools Trump about the separation of powers. Like Trump gives a shit about the Constitution,
6. Speaking of the Constitution, Trump will wipe his ass on the Bill of Rights, except for the lunatic and completely incorrect version of the Second Amendment used by Republicans.
7. Trump will give indelible new meaning to the phrase “bully pulpit.”
8. You will get to see the @realdonaldtrump.
9. Trump is a sociopath. He doesn’t give a shit about anything or anyone but himself. But unlike Tony Soprano who you thought was so cool, this guy is coming for you.
10. If you are not against him, you are for him. ‪@HillaryClinton‬

Necrophilic Narcissism and Donald Trump

Eric Fromm coined the term "necrophilic narcissism" in his book, Anatomy of Human Destructiveness, as he probed the extremes of human evil. In this syndrome, the ordinary narcissist's selfishness and lack of empathy and insight is infused with sadistic joy in the sufferings, more, actual destruction, of others, whose humanity the necrophilic narcissist can not feel. Often, these people seem ordinary and do not understand that what they are doing is wrong, as Hannah Arendt observed of Adolf Eichmann in his war crimes trial, citing "the banality of evil."
My parents were Holocaust-involved and, early in Donald Trump's campaign, I recognized something. A bully. A man who enjoys humiliating others. A pathological need for attention. An inability to understand honesty or integrity. The love of scapegoating. Bigotry. A person who doesn't care, in every sense of the phrase, about anyone except himself. People told me I was foolish to be alarmed, that he could never win the Republican nomination. Now they tell me he can't win the presidency. Are you sure? Really sure? It's important not to miss on this one.
I want to fight him now. While I still can. Please, tell me how.

Happy Bloomsday! Father of a Ghost (Stephen Dedalus on Hamlet)

James Joyce b. February 2
Hamnet Shakespeare baptized February 2

Father of a ghost, but from the charnel dead!
Truepenny called, but bid his one son read
A woeful bedtime tale. So list: if Hamnet were
A suicide (the rest, what is the rest?); if Shakespeare were
Behorned by Ann (and her way hath will, clear)
And asked the poor young Hamnet now to kill the ‘dulterous peer,
(Perhaps to pour the poison in the porches of his ear?)
Cert, he would read just like a crab, ass backward and in fear:
Hamlet (his twin), ou le Distrait, une Pièce de Père Shakespeare;
Ophelia-like, rosemary clad, made mad with that despair.
Or … if the canon ‘gainst self-slaughter held fast,
Would he be murdered with all murdered at last?
And, scarred by family the most,
Who would rise to be his ghost?

From #specialcharacters by Larissa Shmailo, available from Amazon and Unlikely Books.

Donald Trump (sung to the tune of “The Yellow Rose of Texas”)

Trump doesn’t like most Muslims,
Or women, ‘cause “they bleed”; Calls Warren “Pocahontas.” (Next, will he say “half-breed?”)
He bullies rivals for his crowds; His insults are fourth grade. He tells them, “I will build a wall" Apparently, without aid.
He bellows out his speeches,With hate a cardinal part.Abortion may be legal Until his change of heart. He“doesn’t know” re: Klan support; It seems a crying shame To give someone who's so confused unsettling press and fame.
Trump says he has done nothing That God needs to forgive. Then live and let live, Donald Trump, And go with God to live.

In memoriam Steven Charles Werner 5/3/55 - 3/26/85

Death at Sea

The heart, someone wrote once,Couldn’t walk a straight line,Couldn’t pass the drunk test if it tried.
Some men play the odds; their heads count cardsBut their hearts play inside straights.They can’t bluff, ever,Show their hand, most times,And always give the pot away.
Steven died at seaHolding the dead man’s hand, aces up.A poker-faced corpse surfaces on the water:I seeThe orange safety vestInflated around his neckMocking God and meNow, now, now, now, now---Too late.
I held his wake in Vegas,Sat Shiva in casinosWhere there were no windows, no daytime, no peace.I put him in a casket,A greedy one-armed banditIt still asks me for coinsFor its insatiable slot.
I hate the beachThe deadsea beachThe sunblocked snorkeled oily beachThe scuba lungsThe deadgrass skirtsThe blind bikinied sunglass beach
I hate the seaThe soulless seaThe sentient, malevolent swampy seaIt don’t care if you liveIt won’t cry if you dieIt boasts like YawehIt spits in your eyeThe seaThe stupid sea.
But I love the albatross That took Steven’s soul,And I love the lighthouse and the shore,And I love all sailors, both sober and drunk,That won’t kill a bird no matter what,And I love the salt and I love the storm,And I loved Steven, beyond most doubt,
And if I knew thenWhat I know nowCould I have walked on waterAnd pulled him out?

The F Word

Proud to be included in Sarah Waddell's documentary on contemporary feminism, The F Word. Fact: If female entrepreneurs were funded at the same level men are, 6,000,000 jobs would be created.


I. Je suis une femme de lettres et je gagne ma vie.

All ways a feather: bed your bugs as they bud
Welling roses these sweltering days
Rose roaches blooming by books, near pillows
Blooming by Bloomsday, busting out by June
Busting on Broadway, busting the busts…
Hey, this is…my bra!
(Like swallowing feathers, you know,
dirty feathers.)
And this is December and over there, Christmas
We call April Easter cause she makes them march.

Welling roses in Wellington Rolls
Rose roaches blooming by books, near pillows
Rolls with butter, rolls with jam
Roll her over, let’s go hot damn
Sweltering days as rose roaches bloom
Swilling slaves in rose roaches’ room

Bloom, concrete blossoms!
Bloom, Broadway bottoms!
Bloom! Picks his nose
Bloom! As he grows. . . .

Bed your bugs as they bud, as they breed─what a breed!
Ill-bred, no bread
Dirty cunt’s puking
Just giving me head. . . .

All ways are fettered
Fellated and fucked
For ever and all
But mostly for us

II. Foret sans oiseaux

All ways are feathered.
For rest a bed,
For the rest, a bed . . . .
Hey, this is. . . .I know; I’ve had them for years.
I’ve had it. Have you? Been had?
Have you a forest? Have you a bed?
Have you a haven?
(Forests of feathers: naked birds shrieking
Bony birds swooping
Burning birds screaming
Descending like hell)
Blooming rose roaches all buds destroyed
Bony birds bleeding, beating, breaking, bled. . .
For rest, a bed, for rest. . .
Fine-feathered slaughter by books, near pillows
Rose roaches breed,
Bleed swiftly and die.

III. On commence par ệtre dupe, on finit par ệtre fripon.
─George Sand

Always the feathers: hi, I’m Molly Bloom;
Blow by my bathroom . . . .
By the window a frozen bird, frozen for weeks,
A weak bird, a dead duck, a gone goose,
A pigeon petered out. . . .

But I’m Molly Bloom, you’ve had me, you know:
Birds are just chirping snakes.
But I’m Molly Bloom, I’m a mammal,
I have mammaries, see: This is a bust!
I don’t touch dead birds.

This is December, and over there’s Christmas
And Easter will rise to any occasion
For ever and all
For Peter and Paul. . . .
But I’m Molly Bloom, I’m a pagan, you fuck!
(A man? Where?)

A feather bed for me, a haven for rest,
Pillows for the head, and books for the rest
I need the rest: this is short, where’s the rest?

All ways are fetid
Fellated and fucked
No bird’s no damn good
Until it’s been plucked.
A man? Amen. This is Easter.
Rest that piece.

A Sop for Cerberus

He needed me. Alone at the gates of Hell, He looked at me, his six rheumy eyes Fixing me imploringly. So I fed him meat And with a leap, he jumped onto my back: The animal musk and the weight of him, The great paws, the salivating jaw, The hot muzzle and demon-bloody wounds, Startling. But I found I could carry him, And brought him home to keep:The dead do not play; the dead do not speak.

At the Top of My Lungs

1. At the top of my lungs I scream at you all,Babies, I am your mother!Love me! Let me in!Excited by my love, I shriek and bang at your door:I love you, let me in!
What?You don’t want to?Then I will slash my wrists,And from my wrists will come ants and tired shopkeepers,All the things you ever imagined or dreamed,Bits of glass and fearWill pour from these important veins:You’ll see how much I love you then.
2. A proposition:If, every dayI deliberately did things to hurt you,Would you still love me?
3. Babies, my children,I sit on your doorstep and scream,How I love my children,How I long to love them!Like a scorpion I would carry you on my back,My stinger poised, ready to kill;Oh, how my babies would love me then!
Babies, I would bite off my hands for you,Like an albatross or a whale, I would swallow you wholeAnd keep you safe in my stomach;I love you that much;Surely that’s worth something.
4. At the top of my lungs I scream at you all,I am bigger and better than anything you will ever know,Than anything you will ever be.Love me.Love me now.
5. Babies, let’s not argue:I will always win.Let me in.