She’d identified herself as a poet when I first met her. It turned out we’d both liked that Dorothea Lasky poem “Porn” in The Paris Review. “I just watched a woman fuck a hired hand,” is one of the memorable lines.
Louise was a friend of a friend of a friend, actually no, a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, once removed with whom I was no longer speaking. I’d met the friend of a friend of a friend once removed at the party for Helen’s chapbook. After readings of pre-Perestroika Samizdat, we would retire to Ukrainian East, the dank basement place next to Veselka on Second Avenue.
The sound of her husband’s body hitting the mound of refuse wasn’t that much more dramatic than any of other occasional thumping that came from the dumpster, which contractors routinely used when there was a renovation going on.
No one paid attention to me. I was invisible. I was just one of those guys who spend their life filling out forms, paying bills, filing taxes on time for fear of being imprisoned, and dealing with the next minor emergency—the dead car battery, the leaking radiator that seemed to define the passage of my days.
Review by R. Stephen Shodin Seven Days in Rio by Francis Levy Two Dollar Radio; 160 p. Francis Levy’s Seven Days in Rio is an incredibly elaborate and well-crafted satire built around the sex-starved, psychologically fucked up, seersucker-suit-wearing Kenny Cantor. Kenny is a CPA, self-proclaimed amateur psychoanalyst, and sex tourist on vacation from Manhattan. Much like Kenny, Levy’s snappy sentences bound along like a stupid American: all tourism and no regard for any other culture or value system. So much […]