ME READING STUFF

I'm hesitant to expose myself the way I did in this episode, but what are you gonna do? Apparently when you're me, what you do is embarrass yourself. Why the hell not. Today, from a balcony in Beverly Hills, I perform some raps and songs I wrote in 2nd grade. And then I launch into the real meat of this episode. Siste Viator, a book of poems by Sarah Manguso was recommended to me by a well read li...

Hearing Leonard Cohen read his "A Note To The Reader" in the documentary I'M YOUR MAN is about 6 billion times better than hearing me read it, but that didn't stop me from clumsily reading it through my early-morning-sinus coughs. I also read two Rilke poems that you'll enjoy if you have blood inside your body. From the Underground, with love, Robyn

Today is just highly erotic. It must be because I'm going to a RUSH concert tonight. Geddy Lee is the picture of SEX, am I right? Today, I read a beautiful short poem by Emily Moore. She is a poet, musician, and a high school english teacher. I'm thrilled to have been introduced to her work. And as your little appetizer, I read my first Channing Tatum erotic poetry entry, and in it, we learn that...

Along with reading e.e. cummings, today I challenge you to write your own poem. But here's the premise. You are Channing Tatum. And this is your secret erotic poetry. Email your finished work to oneilassistant@gmail.com. Winner receives a special drawing made by me! All my love, Channing Tatum

Today I sit on some bathroom floor water and read to you powerful poems by Heather Christle. She's alive right now. And so are you apparently. All of this is a good thing. These poems brought up cherished memories of reading François Rabelais and listening to Nina Nastasia. Let me know what they do for you. I eat stars, Robyn

Today was filled with technical glitches, gin-soaked women, and me accidentally stumbling into a replica of Buffalo Bill's lair. Only this one had a crying baby in a playpen, making it that much more fun. With all the excitement, I almost didn't get around to reading you "Blue Song" by Tennessee Williams. But look at me, I did it. And what a poem it is. I am tired too, Mr. Williams, Robyn

Shhhhhh, this is my WEEKEND BONUS ROUND!!!!! Tonight, as rain fell on Los Angeles and I digested an entire tower of Salt & Vinegar Pringles (SPONSORSHIP PLEA), I decided to read you a hilarious piece by Jason Preu called "Billie Jean King." In it, he informs us of the devastating news that she is not Michael Jackson's lover. Don't go around breaking young girls' hearts, Robyn

If you were looking for a triad of DEATH and FAMILY WOES poems, well guess what? I'm here for you! Today, we have some heavy hitters, including one of my very favorite people who ever walked the face of the Earth, Robinson Jeffers. The other two are Heinrich Heine and Frank Stanford. I love them both dearly as well. And I love you, Robyn (slightly over my time limit today and I'm so so so so sorry...

When a poem starts with the line, "Get out of my walled infinity," I'm so in. I discovered the work of Serbian poet Vasko Popa this weekend, and can't get enough. What I can get enough of is how unpalatable these recordings sound to me, so I ask you guys for mic setup suggestions. And I promise, there will be no Kickstarter. I got this. Out of my mouthful of sun, Robyn

I am getting better all the time, but I wish nothing bothered me. I meet those people. I live with one of those people. People able to move through life without unnecessary upset. Those are the best people. And dispositionally fortunate. But for those of us irritated, today I read Lydia Davis's "I'm Pretty Comfortable, But I Could Be a Little More Comfortable." It's funny, it's relatable, and I'm...

Today I barely have a voice, but I went ahead and attempted to read anyway. Apologies for the gravel. The poem today is "Dream Song 22 (Of 1826)" from John Berryman's 77 Dream Songs. By chance, this poem happens to mention the 4th of July, so there you have it. Celebrate. Eat something. Stand in the heat. Look to the sky. Yours, Robyn

This week conjured up many lines from Charles Bukowski's "The Genius of the Crowd", so that's what I'm reading, amongst the bugs, today. Stop seeking average (imperative), Robyn

Today I sing to you from an unnamed hotel in an unnamed city. I tell you about how I'm now on iTunes, so please subscribe. Most importantly, I read to you the unrivaled and most complex of all romantics, Anne Carson. She talks here of hitting the wall, and then of alcohol, memory and blood.

My friend Tim sent me a Mark Strand poem. I immediately loved it. Then I punctuate the reading with a Mark Strand translation of Rafael Alberti. I also talk about laundry and taxes.

Today, you’ll hear me reading the great Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai. This guy hit on all cylinders. And with Amichai, those cylinders embedded themselves in things as diverse as sex, agitated lawyers, prayer, geometry & home.

Carson McCullers is a personal hero, and while I’d love to read all of The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter to you, that’d be ridiculous. So what better way to start a Monday than reading a poem about the maddening enchantment of love?

I am a lake. I am a tongue. I am a spirit. I am fevered. I am not covetous. I am the Dark Cavalier. I am the torch. I arise. I ask. I blow. I bring. I cannot change. I cannot look. I climb the hill. I come. I dream. I envy. I found. I heard. I intended an Ode. I know. I love. I must not grieve, my love. I never. I pant. I remember. I saw thee once. I traveled. I wandered. I will. I will. I will. I...

My first real podcast, simply me reading you one of my favorite poems.