Who Am I Kidding, I'll Probably Do That Anyway

For the past few days I have been hard at work on my costume, which incorporates cardboard, glittery fake snow, and possibly some hay if you are lucky. I am also making a costume for my husband (whom I will henceforth refer to as Elegant Choice), mainly because he has bad ideas, but also because whenever I ask him about kindergarten, he sighs and says, “I just couldn’t cut like they wanted me to.” My costume is almost finished, and when I put it on and stick some hay where it needs to go, I feel magnificent.

However, if I do not start seeing some more submissions soon, I will be forced to make many, many more costumes for myself, and after a while I’ll get lazy and just start posting artistic photos of anonymous cooches and calling them crude foyers. Consider yourselves warned!

Laurence Cohen, It Is On

It has come to my attention that this man believes that Wallace Stevens does not deserve a party. Naturally, I will be sending him many, many lewd photos of myself throughout the month of October, in hopes of winning him over--and also avenging a certain “undeservedly famous” ghost who is thirsty for some naysaying blood.

Breast Cob, Crazy Dick and Babyfaced Dino Make Ready Their Costumes; Or Hey Look, A Baby with Pubes

When the Fangs Melt, the Party's Over

Another thing Wallace Stevens's birthday party probably needs is an enormous ice sculpture of a tiger in the middle of the room—you know, a monument of cat! Get it? Do you get it?

Then again, this monument of cat would work just as well, if not better. I’m torn—let’s have both.

I Love Him Bad, You Guys

So, I was thinking that what this party really needs is a few contests—perhaps contests in which participants are asked to guess the line of poetry that inspired a particular costume. I have no idea what I would offer as prizes, though. I imagine that most of the people who will be participating already own copies of the collected poems. I wonder if any of the published folks out there would be willing to donate books of their own to the cause, to spread the love around? Let me know. Otherwise, the winners will all be receiving bottles of Axe Body Wash—even the ladies. I myself am currently using Stimulating Guarana, in an effort to make women everywhere “shower me with unrelenting attention,” because I am curious to see what that might be like.

In the meantime, I will tell you all about me and Wallace Stevens. (Feel free to send me your own stories, too; they couldn’t possibly be as embarrassing as mine.) I first met Wallace Stevens when I was fifteen years old, under the crap-spackled roof of a poetry anthology I had been given for Christmas. I had already been writing poetry for six years, and had in fact sent a manuscript to a first-book competition earlier in the year—because I was insane, and a chomping, salivating alligator of ego. It might surprise you to learn that I did not win. Nisey Levertov actually died in the middle of the judging period, no doubt as a result of the violent confusion engendered in the mind and body of anyone who tried to read such lines as “Death reaps in the fields,/ and we are the gleaners who follow behind.” Oh, my God, you guys. Dickardo Wilbur was also included in that anthology, as was Paulie Celan. As a matter of fact, it was probably Celan who gave me the idea that what every poem needed was a little bit of Hitler, a belief that eventually resulted in the composition of a remarkable piece of juvenilia called “An Ode to Hitler’s Guardian Angel,” which I will reproduce for your benefit below.

An Ode to Hitler's Guardian Angel

The angel appeared to Hitler
in a dream, to warn him,

to tell him to stop
what he was doing,
that it was madness.

But when Hitler woke,
all he remembered
was the blonde hair,
and the blue eyes,

and he smiled,
secure in the knowledge
that he was doing the right thing.

I am not even kidding—even as I read it now, I must suppress the urge to vomit terrible laughter. Relax, though, I never wrote about Hitler again—until last month, when I embarked on a long, ambitious manuscript called Tiny Mustache, What Were You Thinking? Anyway, the editors had several of Stevens’s poems in their hideous anthology. I think they were “Anecdote of the Jar” and “Peter Quince at the Clavier.” I had never read anything like them, and being one of those people who was always saying things like, “Have you ever really thought about, like, dinosaurs? Fucking whoa, right?” I felt as though I had finally found my spirit animal in the form of an awesome codger. “Just as my fingers on these keys/ Make music, so the self-same sounds/ On my spirit make a music, too”—fucking whoa, right? The jar, like, imposes order on the chaos of nature or whatever! So began my lifelong devotion.

Wallace Stevens's Birthday, Part Two

If you’re visiting for the first time, be sure and read the statement of purpose for Emperor of Ice-Cream Cakes. The estimable Reb, the canonical Ron, and the bodacious Whimsy have all been kind enough to link here, and I am so excited for October that this morning in the shower I forgot what I was doing and accidentally applied a large quantity of shampoo to my face and lathered it like a grimacing underarm. Here are a few more relevants FAQs:

Q. Are you already accepting submissions? When will the submission period end?

A. I’m accepting submissions right now, and you can submit contributions up till the very end of October. You have lots of time.

Q. Can my contribution be a video of me and my friends on YouTube performing a costumed reading of one of Stevens’s poems?

A. Fantastic idea.

Q. Why don’t you call him Wally? You seem to love him enough, and it might be funnier.

A. When I was a child, I promised myself that I wouldn’t be one of those people who referred to “Chessy Milosz” or “Binso Jeffers” or “Rardy M. Hopkins.” Plus, one time in the course of a casual conversation I referred to Jessica Simpson as Jess, and I have pretty much never recovered from that. Wallace it is.

Q. Is this “party” really just viral marketing for some project of your own?

A. No, although that would have been a good idea. I just want to throw a giant discarnate party for Wallace Stevens’s 127^th birthday. Of course, if we get to the end of October and I announce the release of my latest book, Tricked You All, subtitled Suck on My Wig of Things, Wallace Stevens, I Am Riding the Broad Sow of Your Genius All the Way to the Marketplace, you have the permission to throw me in the pokey of your choice, where I will choke to death on the smoke of my pants.

Q. I don’t think Wallace Stevens would approve!

A. Really? Well, I don’t think Wallace Stevens would approve of your lardy insubordinate face, which I have described in great detail in my epic poem Lardy Insubordinate Face and the Cheeks Below.

More questions as they come--in the meantime, get cracking on your costumes!

Wallace Stevens's Birthday: The New Hallowe'en

Note: As is evident from the most recent entries, the site's original month-long party-throwing purpose has been extended to other poets besides the original and beloved Wallace Stevens--in fact, a different poet for each month. October was dedicated to Wallace, November is being dedicated to Hart Crane, and December and January have yet to be announced. All of the guidelines set out in the post below are applicable--I'm still asking you guys to send me artistic interpretations of poems and pictures of yourselves dressed up as lines of poetry. Photoshop seems to be particularly well-loved among our contributors so far, but feel free to buck that trend if the spirit moves you in other directions. Email me with questions if you have them, and send any and all submissions to happybirthdaywallace at yahoo dot com. Thanks!

Hello, and welcome to Emperor of Ice-Cream Cakes*, an online birthday party for Wallace Stevens that will occur throughout the entire month of October. Fuck that birthday week business (more like birthday weak, AM I RIGHT?); a week is not good enough for Wallace Stevens, and if it were possible I would devote an entire year to celebrating his birthday—a Sidereal year, even, which is like six hours longer. Anyway, I want you to come; namely, I want you to send me pictures of yourself and your friends dressed as lines of Wallace Stevens’s poetry. For example, in perusing the first stanza of “The Comedian as the Letter C,” I see that I could choose to dress as a Socrates of snails, as a musician of pears, as a wig of things, or as a nincompated pedagogue. Any of these would make excellent costumes, but I encourage you to dig deep into his collected poems to discover more and better ideas. I also want you to suggest appropriate drinks, music, decorations, finger food, and erotic games. Beginning on the 2^nd, the day Wallace Stevens himself slipped from his mother’s slithers, I will post any and every contribution that I receive—starting with my own. Please send your contributions to happybirthdaywallace at yahoo dot com. Feel free to include your own blog address in your email, and let me know how you want me to refer to you: full name, first name, or nickname.

*It is a lame joke, as Wallace would have wanted.

General FAQ

Q. May I send more than one photograph or list of suggestions?

A. Of course you may. I am hoping to get as many contributions as possible.

Q. Can I send a comic, a drawing, or a photoshopped image instead of a photograph of myself?

A. Absolutely.

Q. Can my contribution be a giant picture of my dick wearing a porkpie hat and carrying a briefcase? Alternately, can my contribution be a giant picture of my vagina with a Dominion Wide Mouth jar stuffed inside of it?

A. I would love nothing more. Anything that Blogger allows me to post, I will post.

Q. Can I send a picture of my baby wearing a costume, perhaps dressed as a concupiscent curd?

A. Please. Please do.

Q. What if I want to have a real birthday party for Wallace Stevens, in my real home, with my real friends?

A. Feel free--if you are some kind of hopeless nerd or something--to celebrate Wallace’s birthday in real life. From what I hear he is a piggy for attention. If you do have a real life party, be sure to send me those pictures as well.

Q. Can I come to the party even if I don't like Wallace Stevens?

A. Of course you may, but please be warned that the lion of my love for him is likely to leap out from between the vegetations of my heart and divide your brains from your face with his vigorous chewing if you do.

Q. I don’t understand! How can you dress as a line of poetry?

A. My cat, who is currently dressed as a mute and maidenly greenhorn, does not understand either.

Q. Who are you?

A. My name is Tricia. More generally, however, I am a chick who wants to throw a birthday party for Wallace Stevens, with streamers, hired animals, spangly hos eating fire, and people in costumes.

Further questions may also be directed to happybirthdaywallace at yahoo dot com, and I’ll extend or amend this post as needed over the next week. See you in October!