Pete Bakowski’s challenge: attempt Padgett’s ‘How To Be Perfect’.


“Hindley Street”—

I write those words, the

title of this poem,

on this pad,

to start a list—of things I must

do. Is this

going to be a poem?

Isn’t it?

               (“Hindley Street”—

I know what it will mean.

I continue the list …

Names of people I should

email. Richard, in case

my silence is taken to mean something,

something dark, brooding—

Micky, to break her silence.)
Different from what I had been

going to write—fired up

by the fetishized nebulosity

of the Houynhhyms last night.
I get a haircut instead,

& the head massage that

goes with it

syphons off 

all anxiety.

                       Philosophers,

rub your heads!  
My hair short again—

my visage modern.
Now, to work—

to face down the future

as it comes on

like gangbusters,

minute by minute—

doing this & doing that—

philosophy, meanwhile, on the back-burner.

Simmering.

I add Simryn Gill

to the list. Hullo, Richard, Micky, Simryn!
Like a small-minded Frank O’Hara,

a sort of contradiction in terms—
small-minded then, not like Frank O’Hara,

but with my haircut, at least,

ashamed of a century that is

ashamed of me, if it thinks about it.

Me, & the century—at neither of which

I can smile. Time to get

my head rubbed? No time for that—

the future arriving incrementally,

minute by minute—

like pirates boarding a ship.

So it’s Game On!
I rather like the look

of this loony tune

swinging in the rig, his earrings

& bandanas, cutlass

between his teeth.

Tho is it Peter Bakowski,

in disguise, this pirate

‘of the future’—forget

I ever said that!

(The future

can look after itself.) ? —

is it Peter?

& the pirate hands me a

telegram from, let’s see …

H.G. Wells? Herbert

‘Vere’ Evatt?  Someone

futuristic—

Arnold Schwartzenegger!?—

no—Ron Padgett.

The pirate now looks like Ron,

I note,

as I read the letter, look up to his

face—which nods, lips parted,

still breathing heavily,

full of encouragement—

& read again.

It says, You’ve forgotten

to read the instructions—haven’t you?

“What?” I say, I think.

Ron speaks:

“How To Be Perfect—

it was in my book of the same name.

I know you’ve read it—

and Kenneth Koch, his ‘General Instructions’, ‘The

Art Of Love’, and other poems-of-advice.

But you don’t seem to have

taken it all in. Or you

bracket it off, as if it

weren’t real life. We’re

not fooling about, buddy.

Sure, make a list of things to do.

You’ve got that right.

But put the right things on the list!

‘Get a haircut’? Why not?

But is that gonna solve anything?

And if you’re gonna get a haircut

Get the Right Haircut—

you look like a disaster!

Sure, write to your friends,

that’s a good idea.

And if you’re dealing with Hounyhymms

Take some energy from the encounter—

You’ve got that right! But …

must you deal with them at all?

Or are you not very discrimminate

in your use of the term?  Were they

that bad?  Ask yourself this.

The future is neither

your friend nor your

enemy unless you set it up that way.

A few precautions, that’s

my advice. Like

Peter Bakowski, he’s got it right.

We’re not a bunch of pirates—

(yes, I’m from the future—

your future, anyway—

it may not be so bleak)

I dress like this

to get your attention.

I’m normally a sneakers-&-jeans

kind of guy, I wear my cap

facing forwards,

over a closely cropped head,

with my signature round glasses.

Not this pirate crap. How they

ever got about, in all this gear,

is hard to figure. But the future

is not waves of pirates

boarding your ship. You’re a

glass-half-empty kinda guy,

aren’t you?  You & Tony Towle

take it on the chin—for

preference, don’t you? You

think that’s ‘Romantic Irony’?

You’re an Australian—

what’s romantic about that?

Have you written to Tony lately?

You haven’t written to me.

So, make a list!

I don’t hold out much hope for you.

You should maybe

re-read my books.

That might help. And Peter Bakowski’s,

he’s the man.
And here our

conversation broke off

near the knoll’s island foam.