They were living in America at another time.
They were living in America for the FBI.
They were living in America shit wins.
They were living in America on the border with Canada.

They were living in America further gone into teats.
They were living in America that was the only good one.
They were living in America that was the only good one.
They were living in America who answers the phone and.

They were living in America deliriously.
They were living in America sadly.
They were living in America fictitiously.
They were living in America wedged.

They were living in America Stella by Starlight.
They were living in America the mighty sun.
They were living in America pandemically.
They were living in America across from the Ritz hotel.

They were living in America getting their chops.
They were living in America only for just one summer.
They were living in America beside the lake.
They were living in America for the defeatist troops.

They were living in America for the pleasure of it all.
They were living in America as well as can be expected.
They were living in America as one grows passionately
out of a love affair they were living there every day.

Does this doughnut remind you of a life preserver?
They were living in America to remind you of me.
They were living in America and a storm blew up suddenly.
They were living in America extended terms of credit.

They were living in America but it’s all over.
They were living in America as tissue paper is to a comb.
They were living in America at fives and sixes.
They were living in America the same old same old.
–John Ashbery, “Default Mode,” 2009

Pamela Joseph, “American Nudism,” 2009

Tonight I had the pleasure of attending a reading by John Ashbery at Poets House in Battery Park (Manhattan). I’ll leave all the fanboying to my journal and cocktail conversations, but it suffices to say I was stoked. Ashbery is sometimes blown up into a behemothic, inscrutable figure at a textual level, but on a personal level he is pure delightfulness. Between the poems come asides such as, “This one I wrote after watching a lot of Antiques Roadshow,” or, “This one is composed entirely of movie titles that begin with ‘They.’” It becomes quickly apparent that he wants not to obscure his work at all, but to let it be enjoyed. He is an entertainer, a slapstick poet. After the reading, I waited in line to have a book signed, and when I finally approached the table, my words came gushing out, about how I admired him and hoped to study his work in graduate school and was honored to be in his fleshly presence. He smiled, only a big, toothy smile. I think I’d expected more, a dialogue, some words. But then I thought that maybe smiles, really, are his currency. It’s an incredible trivialization of his work, to be sure, but I thought back to my responses to his poems, and they often have been smiles. A smile, in its way, signifies intellectual pleasure, a knowledge that I am enjoying something. Sometimes Ashbery makes me laugh out loud, but mostly it’s this sort of reaction, an awareness of my mind at play.

This poem, “Default Mode,” from his most recent book, Planisphere, perfectly encapsulates the enjoyment I get from his work. The majority of it is composed of repetition, the dulling hammer of, “They were living in America.” And it is a dulling experience to be living in America, no? But after each instance of the phrase, we get a jarring, asynchronous one that follows. Most plainly make no sense. After the logical rhythm is established, though, the nonsensical second phrase becomes the understood opposite of the first. How could the poem’s “they” survive such a monotonous life in America? Only by living “deliriously,” “sadly,” “fictitiously,” “wedged.” Only by escaping it all through “Stella by Starlight” (the song, presumably), abutted, not in conjunction.