Gerard Sarnat
Ross*, Shawn** reports, “once told me, half seriously, that he didn’t want to know what any writer thought.” A sound principle, I’d say, bettered only by the specific command that Ross gave an assistant: “Never leave me alone with poets.”
—Anthony Lane, The Battling Memoirs of The New Yorker, 19 May 25
*Founding editor in 1925, **second editor at New Yorker
You’re particularly in our brain
plus more unable not to share
what Gerardo groks in there
when I relax post productive
day by toking yum soaring
Sativa-dominated T.H.C.:
One thumb just put into
cerebral cortex’s corner
easy-as-pie (or perhaps
Ma’s bread pudding?)
goop pull out always
feels plummy to me
but often ends up
striking others as
bad boy’s poetic
garbage oy dross
oughta been left
on editor Ross’
Dress For Less
cutting room
florid floor
Little Jack
Horner’s
catcher
and rye
all that
shit***
***“When J.D. Salinger needed to find the office Coke machine (there wasn’t one), I was the girl he asked. When Woody Allen**** got off the elevator on the wrong floor—about every other time—I was the girl who steered him up two floors where he needed to be,” ibid.