The Bourguignon Prize
Brian Joseph Davis
Me good poet.
Me brain damaged.
No one notice.
Not always like this.
Thoughts hurt head.
Doctor say thing more clear.
“Patient Laurie Beal, aged 38, presented on July 6 with severe headaches, high fever, photophobia, and intermittent confusion. A preliminary diagnosis of encephalitis was made and the patient admitted. Patient history revealed that a month previous she held a backyard party at dusk and, in a rush to make a complicated hummus recipe, forewent the purchasing of citronella candles despite warnings of West Nile-infected mosquitoes in her area. The next day she experienced headaches and malaise but believed it to be eyestrain from her job as copy editor at an alternative weekly, or stress regarding a recent volume of poetry she published that had gone unnoticed. This gave way to joint pain and rash and finally fever and headaches. The etiology was consistent with West Nile encephalitis and treatment was begun while CSF test was performed to confirm infection.”
Me write first poetry book once.
Trade critic write
only review.
“Beal may be a talented poet one day but for now she is too in love with her own cleverness. Her long, trill lines contain references within references and allusions to allusions. Baroque and embellished with rich, poly-saturated words, Beal has made a feast that attempts too much and rewards too little our passing interest.”
Doctor say,
no more poem.
Words missing
in my brain.
“MRI revealed severe encephalitis with limbic involvement. CSF confirmed West Nile infection and symptomatic treatment maintained. Fever continued to spike and patient lapsed into a two-day coma. She remained stable but febrile and damage could not be ascertained until she was revived.”
Me angry now,
all time.
Light invade head.
Words now
hurt like
something breaking
in head.
“Cognitive testing revealed severe limbic system damage. Emotions were uncontrollable, with a violent fascination with ears. Patient attacked several physicians and nurses. Patient given Clozapine to quell psychotic episodes. While memory was not impaired, patient’s verbal and written communication was truncated and severely debilitated, with lack of metaphor and simile construction. Given her uncontrollable outbursts, patient should be treated under restraint and secure supervision. Prognosis for full recovery: 10%. Prognosis for partial recovery: 40%.”
Me escape hospital.
Me show teeth at nurse.
They run.
Me no longer poet.
Me monster.
Me just copy editor.
Me go work.
Me sit down,
hit keyboard,
make words good.
No one notice,
me talk no good.
Wear gown.
Under clothes.
Drooling.
Me have
newfound talent
for sidebar,
they say.
Me still want
eat ear.
Must not eat ear.
Magazine industry
not working.
Many pack boxes.
Hug from no-longer-editor.
Rip ear,
from his head.
Chew.
Police.
Hospital.
Gawker.
“BLIND ITEM: During a round of layoffs at an august alt-weekly, a copy editor turned cannibal and chewed off a recently fired editor’s ear. See, you gotta watch those spaces before and after the m-dashes, or else!
UPDATE: Turns out the copy-editing cannibal is also a poet. Check out her poems after the jump.”
Me write poems
in hospital.
Look like this.
Me take pills.
Stop ear eating.
Kinda.
Poetry is
practice words.
Send poems to
publisher.
Publisher e-mail words.
Words hurt head.
Me want eat
her ears.
“Laurie, I’d like to say how speechless I am regarding your new work. These poems hum with the essence of life. While I absolutely adore your previous works, with their long, ornate sentences, these are a breakthrough in linguistic simplicity and emotional fire. Oh, and ‘ear eating’: my God, what a powerful metaphor for the information age.”
Me publish second book.
Too many person
like.
Trade critic think
it good.
Me think they think
brain damage good.
“Laurie Beal is the poet of the Twitter age. She has wildly abandoned all unnecessary language and in doing so forces us to focus only on that which is painfully real. Throughout she returns to a central image of ear eating. It’s ghastly and violent but also a warning from the poet about the limited power of words and how we all fail to communicate.”
Words no limited.
Me is.
“There is a great mind at work here.”
Me get money.
Doris L. Kohl Award for Poetic Excellence,
The Transportation Secretary’s Award for Poetry,
The Lucky-You Second Book of Poetry Award.
Me want eat
Doris L. Kohl
ear of excellence!
Publisher submit me
to fellowship grant.
Two-year research.
What me want research?
Me research ear eat!
Me get ear eat grant.
Me get more nomination.
The Bourguignon Prize.
100,000 money.
Me taken to gala.
Me forget pills.
Me introduced.
“No poet has developed such a rich language as has Beal. Her spaces are mysteries. Half-opened doors that she beckons us to walk through. Her bravery becomes ours and we walk through. On the other side is a battlefield where our sense organs, like our ears, are the victims. The poet has given us a metaphor for life in wartime.”
Words hurt head.
Poet me goes to
toilet.
Look for pills.
Woman comes in.
Other poet. Not me.
Hate me.
She smiles.
Ears move!
More smile.
More move ears.
Ritz Bitz
ears.
Adjectives have returned!
Partial recovery.
But ears
still
move
to
my
mouth.
Drool.
Then me,
hear big echo,
“And the Bourguignon Prize is awarded to Laurie Beal.”
Other poet takes my small hand.
We leave the white washroom.
Walk to tall stage.
Think of what to
spend green money on.
West Nile.
Lots of West Nile.
In big blood supply.
In small animals.
In small, small, mosquitoes.
Make big brain,
in small you.
Make my
epiphany
yours too.
Me good poet,
like that.
Brian Joseph Davis is an artist and the author of Ronald Reagan, My Father
This story is from the forthcoming collection, Ronald Reagan, My Father
