Trinidad sets the stage here for what have become hallmarks of his work: a deep, entrenched nostalgia for a past remembered
and also lost irretrievably, the allure of what is forbidden or unattainable, and a gleeful reverence for things shamefully enjoyed or
unapologetically overwrought. Culturally, Trinidad is attracted to the extremes of Americana—he has written extensively of his
Barbie collection and fascination with the ultra-feminine icon, and he collaboratively wrote an extensive meditation on Valley of
the Dolls in verse. To say Trinidad’s focus is obsessive would not be hyperbole, especially if the poet himself were to admit it
(which he sometimes does): in Trinidad’s work, hyperbole cannot exist because the natural state of existence is hyped-up,
extravagantly real, and deeply emotional.
As in much of Trinidad’s earlier work, there’s a concern and interest with poetic form, although Trinidad is more likely to work in a
received or invented form rather than a conventional one. “Candy Necklace” is a series of sweet (or sinful) fragments collaged
together with connective asterisks. Sometimes the origins are revealed—quotes from Alice Notley, a voice message from James
Schuyler, a snippet of Flaubert—and sometimes their presence is the poem is otherwise without blatant context: “Good Morning
Slicker,” “Kaleidoscope,” “Chapel of Precious Memories.” As a whole, this poem is to be read in the asterisks: what is unsaid is
of equal relevance.
Other formal innovations include a riff on Joe Brainerd’s “I Remember,” put into action in a poem about Joe Brainerd; “Nature
Poem,” built with flora-adorned film titles of days gone past; and “All This, and Heaven Too,” a compelling piece that uses only
the titles of Bette Davis movies to form narrative sentences:
“The Bride Came C.O.D., Payment on Demand.
The Letter Marked ‘Woman Dangerous, June Bride,
Cabin in the Cotton, Bordertown, Way Back Home.’
What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? Housewife.
Winter Meeting: Satan Met a Lady, The Girl From
Tenth Avenue Hell’s House, Bunny O’Hare.”
Trinidad’s work in this volume summarizes one of his basic philosophical principles: that our memories lived are as critical to
our development as the memories created for us, the stories told to us, the fables in which we were raised. That pop culture
permeates this work is only confirmation to us that it permeates our lives; Trinidad is truly a poet of The Now (even when writing
of the Recent and Former Nows) in that he is, in many ways documenting significant aspects of American culture often ignored or
discounted by other poets. Unlike other poets who do, Trinidad does not engage in the documentation ironically, or to critique: his
work is, in many ways, a simple celebration of the things we loved before we were told they were unlovable or unworthy of our
love.
The Late Show represents a significant moment for the poet in several ways. Some of his most personal poems appear here,
detailing relationships that cross decades, including his unique liaisons with Jimmy Schuyler, Tim Dlugos, and Joe Brainerd, as
well as the powerful sequence on Rachel Sherwood. Trinidad goes even further, writing a significant meditation on the loss of
his mother (“Classic Layer Cakes”) and an expansive, uncontrollable stream-of-consciousness poem (“A Poem Under the
Influence”) that plumbs the dark depths of the past and its hold over the present:
“Confession: I have in my possession two check stubs, one yellow and one pink,
of royalty payments for Valley of the Dolls, which I stole when, for ten days in the summer of
1998,
I catalogued Jackie’s papers, photographs, and memorabilia. I’d been hired by the Susann estate
and brought
out to Los Angeles—the only time I’ve ever flown first class. Kim Rosenfield and Rob
Fitterman were on that flight; we chatted in a waiting area at JFK. I was both elated and
emabarrassed
when first-class passengers were invited to board before the others, the pitiful commoners
who would have to crouch together in coach. ‘All poets should fly first class!’
I pronounced with mock egalitarianism. And in that vain rush forgot my laptop.”
The most personal of the poems here are brutal and unrelentingly honest, juxtaposed—at times with humor and at others with
self-conscious awkwardness—alongside seemingly lighter pieces, like “Slicker” and “Gloss of the Past,” which both meditate on
shades of pink makeup. And yet, it seems that this collection coheres in the notion that what is revealed to us and what we are
willing to reveal in the cool glow of the Late Show in our darkened living rooms is as varied as our lives themselves: we talk of
boys, we talk of makeup, we talk of the things most desired and reviled, and sometimes, cautiously, we risk talking of ourselves,
our lives, our fears.
and also lost irretrievably, the allure of what is forbidden or unattainable, and a gleeful reverence for things shamefully enjoyed or
unapologetically overwrought. Culturally, Trinidad is attracted to the extremes of Americana—he has written extensively of his
Barbie collection and fascination with the ultra-feminine icon, and he collaboratively wrote an extensive meditation on Valley of
the Dolls in verse. To say Trinidad’s focus is obsessive would not be hyperbole, especially if the poet himself were to admit it
(which he sometimes does): in Trinidad’s work, hyperbole cannot exist because the natural state of existence is hyped-up,
extravagantly real, and deeply emotional.
As in much of Trinidad’s earlier work, there’s a concern and interest with poetic form, although Trinidad is more likely to work in a
received or invented form rather than a conventional one. “Candy Necklace” is a series of sweet (or sinful) fragments collaged
together with connective asterisks. Sometimes the origins are revealed—quotes from Alice Notley, a voice message from James
Schuyler, a snippet of Flaubert—and sometimes their presence is the poem is otherwise without blatant context: “Good Morning
Slicker,” “Kaleidoscope,” “Chapel of Precious Memories.” As a whole, this poem is to be read in the asterisks: what is unsaid is
of equal relevance.
Other formal innovations include a riff on Joe Brainerd’s “I Remember,” put into action in a poem about Joe Brainerd; “Nature
Poem,” built with flora-adorned film titles of days gone past; and “All This, and Heaven Too,” a compelling piece that uses only
the titles of Bette Davis movies to form narrative sentences:
“The Bride Came C.O.D., Payment on Demand.
The Letter Marked ‘Woman Dangerous, June Bride,
Cabin in the Cotton, Bordertown, Way Back Home.’
What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? Housewife.
Winter Meeting: Satan Met a Lady, The Girl From
Tenth Avenue Hell’s House, Bunny O’Hare.”
Trinidad’s work in this volume summarizes one of his basic philosophical principles: that our memories lived are as critical to
our development as the memories created for us, the stories told to us, the fables in which we were raised. That pop culture
permeates this work is only confirmation to us that it permeates our lives; Trinidad is truly a poet of The Now (even when writing
of the Recent and Former Nows) in that he is, in many ways documenting significant aspects of American culture often ignored or
discounted by other poets. Unlike other poets who do, Trinidad does not engage in the documentation ironically, or to critique: his
work is, in many ways, a simple celebration of the things we loved before we were told they were unlovable or unworthy of our
love.
The Late Show represents a significant moment for the poet in several ways. Some of his most personal poems appear here,
detailing relationships that cross decades, including his unique liaisons with Jimmy Schuyler, Tim Dlugos, and Joe Brainerd, as
well as the powerful sequence on Rachel Sherwood. Trinidad goes even further, writing a significant meditation on the loss of
his mother (“Classic Layer Cakes”) and an expansive, uncontrollable stream-of-consciousness poem (“A Poem Under the
Influence”) that plumbs the dark depths of the past and its hold over the present:
“Confession: I have in my possession two check stubs, one yellow and one pink,
of royalty payments for Valley of the Dolls, which I stole when, for ten days in the summer of
1998,
I catalogued Jackie’s papers, photographs, and memorabilia. I’d been hired by the Susann estate
and brought
out to Los Angeles—the only time I’ve ever flown first class. Kim Rosenfield and Rob
Fitterman were on that flight; we chatted in a waiting area at JFK. I was both elated and
emabarrassed
when first-class passengers were invited to board before the others, the pitiful commoners
who would have to crouch together in coach. ‘All poets should fly first class!’
I pronounced with mock egalitarianism. And in that vain rush forgot my laptop.”
The most personal of the poems here are brutal and unrelentingly honest, juxtaposed—at times with humor and at others with
self-conscious awkwardness—alongside seemingly lighter pieces, like “Slicker” and “Gloss of the Past,” which both meditate on
shades of pink makeup. And yet, it seems that this collection coheres in the notion that what is revealed to us and what we are
willing to reveal in the cool glow of the Late Show in our darkened living rooms is as varied as our lives themselves: we talk of
boys, we talk of makeup, we talk of the things most desired and reviled, and sometimes, cautiously, we risk talking of ourselves,
our lives, our fears.
THE BLURB by Charles Jensen
 |  |  |  |  |  |
As a cultural icon of wistful American nostalgia and good old fashioned spectacle, the
convention of the “Late Show” and the poetry of David Trinidad are not unlike each
other. The Late Show became the repository of American cinema’s forgettable trash,
refusing to let it dwindle out of fashion completely, saving it, reverently, for the few who
would need it. And in his poems, David Trinidad sorts through that cultural trash,
recovering memories, dreams, desires—whatever the conscious mind would most
like to repress.
In his latest collection, Trinidad unites these two forces inextricably, launching into the
book with the titular poem, a systematic recounting of the most outlandish and
memorable scenes from these lost films:
“Natalie Wood, in the middle
of reciting a Wordsworth poem,
bursts into tears and runs out
of the classroom.
…
Kim Novak screams and backs out
of the bell tower, into thin air.”
convention of the “Late Show” and the poetry of David Trinidad are not unlike each
other. The Late Show became the repository of American cinema’s forgettable trash,
refusing to let it dwindle out of fashion completely, saving it, reverently, for the few who
would need it. And in his poems, David Trinidad sorts through that cultural trash,
recovering memories, dreams, desires—whatever the conscious mind would most
like to repress.
In his latest collection, Trinidad unites these two forces inextricably, launching into the
book with the titular poem, a systematic recounting of the most outlandish and
memorable scenes from these lost films:
“Natalie Wood, in the middle
of reciting a Wordsworth poem,
bursts into tears and runs out
of the classroom.
…
Kim Novak screams and backs out
of the bell tower, into thin air.”