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C: Tell me about your work The Unknown. W: Oh, that’s our anthology. Which reminds me, didn’t you edit an anthology called Up Late: American Poetry since 1970? C: Why yes, some years ago. W: Do you know where I can get a copy? C: Well, ha ha, I’m supposed to be interviewing YOU, I mean . . . W: I’m totally serious. That anthology has that poem by Bernadette Mayer, about . . . C: Yes, yes. . . . W: . . . about how “I guess we’ll never live on a farm after all.” You know that poem? C: Unknown. Now tell me, the very title itself suggests to me a sort of nebulous quality, your calling something unknown is playing, if you will, with the sign— W: Do you know her? C: Bernadette Mayer? W: Yeah, she is so cool. C: I don’t believe I’ve ever met her. We’re going to have to cut this out, sorry. W: Do you have a copy of Bernadette Mayer’s Utopia? Man, that book is the shit! C: Can I get some more coffee over here? Scott, finally, you’ve arrived. Could you remove your compatriot? Please— S: Damn it, William. We’re here to do a job. I knew you’d get off on some obscure book. Do I have to everything myself? [Scott hefts William over his shoulder, fireman’s carry, and removes William from the room as he babbles something about language poetry.] D: My apologies, Andrei, for William’s inappropriate behavior. C: Not at all. Close the door behind you, yes, that’s it. Okay now, let’s begin. |
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