–What kind of poetry do you write?
–What do you mean?
–I write sonnets, and you?
–I can’t fit life into rhyme scheme. It would be a strait jacket. Rhythm is free. How can I accept rhythm of ancient ages when I’m feeling my own rhythm. The velocity of cars—the engines of our time—concords, faxes, guns and subways. The way we talk and the way we commute. Do we have time to write novels. What is immortal in a novel is not the form which is long dead, but the context. And the same with poetry—what is said—that remains, the way we say things, changes.
–Which means, you write blank verse like Neruda.
–Like Rimbaud—or Baudelaire—Little Prose Poems?
–I do not write little poems. I write big books. Which is not to imply that I like everything in them.
–Then why do you publish them?
–Because it’s not a matter of liking. Because to tell you the truth, many times, I don’t like myself. What am I going to do? Kill myself because I don’t like myself. No, I exist. Those poems I do not like function in the whole work. And they work well. So, it’s not a matter of liking. I don’t like my nose, but it exists and it works well.
–You could also get a nose job.
–Why, I can breathe.
–Do you write every day?
–I don’t have something to say everyday.
...de esa cosa excesiva que es Yo-yo boing! de Giannina Braschi