Nada Gordon

Prancing as if I am a prancer

March 6, 2009 Nada GordonLeave a comment

Lovely Human

I am not an Exoskeleton.

Prancing as if I am a prancer
Sallow with great desire
I am not an exoskeleton
Replicate me as I am should be

Love makes me wander
Walking around the corn
Finding hidden holes

Is love only for Mexicans?

Love me velvet-creepily

March 6, 2009 Nada GordonLeave a comment

My Lap

Love me like an intriguing notion
Love me velvet-creepily
Search my sour turmoil…
Have I now be your sour mate?

My lap…
I try to write you down my frantic annotations
into the bottom of honey ‘till there’s no more travesty
This love letter shall remind me
Love fabricates (fellates) us this far and it should be!
Well, I edit out the best of you
to see you receding always…

Ovaltine Love Feeling

March 6, 2009 Nada GordonLeave a comment

Ovaltine Love Feeling
or
The Beauty of Love

The beauty of love that I feel in mimic of eyes’ slippage
Into the “cubistic environment” of my soul
As if my body ripped the experienced chaos of everyday life
By the deepest of love’s neglected child.

Understanding love as a more fundamental set of dualisms
Translate life into a visual corollary of a word trap:
A perfect feeling like an echo chamber.
There’s nothing impossible: I work with ephemera.
I walk with passion, oar buckets, shovels, etc.
Try to stand with the power of love and artichoke suppers.

Have you waiting for my damn thing or my big star-studded names?
And say love words in language as a damnation of human sensibility into the blinder mouths of politicans?

Look, kids! Videos!

March 1, 2009 Nada GordonLeave a comment

The legendary John Giorno reads his poem, “It Doesn’t Get Better” at the Bowery Poetry Club in New York City on 2/28/09.

Felix Bernstein on Richard Foreman!

March 1, 2009 Nada GordonLeave a comment

High art and low art are pals. I guess I’ve always found that in art but now, this has helped me to find it in my reality, that the world full of TV and come-downs and stresses and tests, is all part of the beauty. It mustn’t be chained away some place, it mustn’t be victimized, it mustn’t be labeled as diseased, it mustn’t be cured with a pill. It must be first embraced, as much as it embraces us.

I learned the truth at seventeen

February 26, 2009 Nada Gordon9 Comments

Here’s a REAL diary entry I wrote at seventeen in a miserable little room in Oakland across from the Siddha yoga ashram at which my mother was a devotee.

The fantasy here is out of control, of course, but what’s fascinating to me is the number of things that have come some tempered version of true. Do we write our lives into being? I always wonder…

May 19, 1981

Good morning. Today is Malcom X day, and there’s no school. Isn’t that a joyous fact? Well frankly, I haven’t got anything to do. Anthony was supposed to come over last night, but he didn’t; didn’t even call, either. Very bad boy. When the time comes, I won’t be mad enough at him. Wish I’d written down my dreams. They were strange & awkward. Well, and what shall I do? Sit around and let my hair grow. I always think it’s come to a standstill. Maybe it just grows at a snail’s pace. YUK – SNAILS. I’m mad. What’s to do? I wish I was rich and lived in New York. I would go out and buy the most interesting clothing imaginable. I’d ride around in a red convertible. Yes and I’d have a beautiful house filled with food and cute boys. My closet would be a whole room. My shoes alone would take up ½ a wall. I would always have clean underwear. And about 200 sweaters – intricate, original, mohair & cashmere patterns. Leather pants and jeans in every color, almost. At least fifty gorgeous vintage dresses, all of which would fit perfectly, in taffeta, cotton, silk, etc. Plus I would have tailored tuxedos in rose and grey and gold. With the most elaborate of antique lace blouses. My hair would be twice as long as it is now – red, yellow, and brown, like fire, and in a hundred tiny braids. I would wear a lot of extreme but lovely makeup. But best of all I would always have something to do. I would give parties and invite sweet brilliant people. Lots of food and music. Here’s a typical day: upon awakening in my lace canopy bed with the satin comforter and 100% cotton sheets and fluffy perfect pillows I’d be served breakfast in bed by one of the many cute boys in my employment. I would have ordered it the night before – anything I want, from eggplant parmesan to Cream of Wheat. All the cute boys would be very cool, in bands, and this would be their way of getting extra money, which I could spare. From a list of thousands of records I’d pick one. After eating I’d bathe in my gorgeous fern-filled bathroom, which had music piped in. It’s a Jacuzzi and bubble bath, of course. When I get out of the tub and dry off with a soft plush 100% cotton towel, one of my friends, a girl, comes to help me with my hair and makeup, arranging the braids, choosing the best shade of magenta lipstick. But I don’t get dressed yet, not till the late afternoon (unless of course, I have plans), I go into my beautiful study with the comfortable chairs and couch and the antique desk and electronic typewriter and I either read or write. I have a beautiful extensive library to choose from and I read several languages. Then I’d get dressed and go out in my red convertible to have a late lunch with friends. Or else I’ll invite them over. Then we all go out to see complex foreign films or live theatre or a museum or we’ll just plain bum around (I’ll still be young, you know) and talk to people on the street and go to old bookstores and clothes stores and cafes or whatever we feel like doing. And maybe I’d go home and maybe write or sleep for a while before I dress in the height of interesting-ness to go out to some wild art party where I’d invariably have one or two (at least) romances going on. And sometimes I’d bring home a cute boy or girl, but not very often because all the time I’d be wondering about Anthony who became a gypsy before I got rich and I couldn’t contact him, although I’d traveled the world looking for him. And so although I’d be happy on the surface and content and all that I’d yearn for him, and that would be the tragedy in this life to make it realistic. I would have gotten rich from writing, of course. Novels and poetry and non-fiction and stories. And then one day Anthony would appear at my doorstep, needing a shave, and I’d support him for the rest of our lives, until the world ended or until we’d committed mutual suicide.

The end.

I Won’t Be Adulthoodedness Anymore

February 26, 2009 Nada GordonLeave a comment

I Won’t Be adulthoodedness Anymore

All i want is your little bouquet in the night,
Mr. “Art is art-as-art.”

Is strobe’s collective surprise still only for me?

Let reasonably “real” external manifestations of inner nervous receptivity-of-impulse welcome me,

and yield with musically wired meat consciousness
the same fleeting ”tawdriness” of other.

I am truly chiaroscuro glottal mucus slippage

When i crush into the yang of trial dessert,
nonchalantly and impudently naked

Love begin to narrate its mechanical trickery in me

But there’s only cellular messages at the apex
of American consumer fetishism.

Really, i can’t exhaust language without you, my shaped tone

I remember on your storm of dark jittery sparks to me

The day when you became my slowly uncoiling projector

Flickering me over with your haphazard composure

I won’t be pizzicato (MUTED form of plucking) or variable oval (actually unnameable) beautiful ruffled crisp language “sparrows,” – free from dogma and staged subservient “outsideness” – or a burst of white scratches… in anybody’s brain-dance ¬– anymore.