Everything is Everything
by Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz
A REVIEW BY STEVIE EDWARDS, Editor in Chief
Some Muzzle readers may know Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz best for her contributions to the slam poetry community, particularly for founding and hosting the esteemed NYC-Urbana poetry slam. In addition to her abounding performance poetry credentials, Aptowicz also has an impressive publishing record. She has published five collections of poetry and numerous poems in literary journals, including Rattle, Hayden's Ferry Review, Pank, decomP, and (of course) the inaugural issue of Muzzle. Her most recently published collection of poetry, Everything is Everything, oscillates between moments that make me want to laugh until it hurts, buy a more reliable deadbolt, and give someone pretty and wonderful a big, fat kiss.
Everything is Everything begins with a poem simply titled, “Reader.” This poem can serve as a directive to the reader on how to make meaning out of the rest of the poems in the collection. Aptowicz begins by describing categories that poems can often fall into:
Some poems read like a bookshelf.
The poets carefully putting each word
in its place, snug and sure and right. . .
Still others feel like a come on,
something you can't believe still works,
and yet here you are, in bed with it. (1-3, 6-9)
She proceeds to explain that her poems “are like the hot panic you feel / when you are sure you've lost something / and dump your bag on the table” and “the things which / tumble out of the bag: the menus, the post-its. . .” (10-14). I was originally surprised by this claim that her poems are like “hot panic.” Based on the little bits of her work I'd heard performed or read on the page, I was expecting a book of poetry that would underscore the bizarre in life and give me a good, hard belly-laugh. This book certainly does both of those things, but the “hot panic” is also there. These poems represent the places a disquieted and trivia-filled mind glitches on when searching for some elusive “shiny key / needed to open that stubborn door” (20-21).
In many of these poems Aptowicz's mind glitches on fairly obscure and grotesque examples of human behavior. Notably, three poems in this book (“Why I Shouldn't Read Books,” “How Carpophorus Did It,” and “Poetry Reading, Inauguration Night, New York City”) deal with giraffes specially trained to rape women as punishment in Ancient Rome. In “A Short History of Unusual Fish,” Aptowicz tells a story about Albert Fish, a serial killer who “kept sticking / sewing needles in the soft space he found / between his penis and scrotum,” eventually causing sparks to fly from his crotch as the electric chair shorted out (17-19). Additionally, in “Be Prepared,” she tells about how during the Black Plague the Saxon army catapulted infected corpses at their enemies. While reading the aforementioned poems, I often found myself shocked into laughter by Aptowicz's witty renderings of these horrific stories and the overall bizarreness of the images (ex: sparks flying out of Albert Fish's pin-cushion crotch), and then feeling very guilty for laughing at things that are truly cruel and horrible.
One might wonder why a poet would want to write about horrifying things like giraffes being trained to rape women. So does Aptowicz. In “Why I Shouldn't Read Books” (one of the poems about rapist giraffes), she notes that she “should be writing poetry / about the shiny new year or my pink cheeked nephews” (40-41), instead of reading books that make her “look like the world's creepiest conversationalist” (47). Additionally, when she recounts the story of Albert Fish to her ex-boyfriend in “A Short History of Unusual Fish,” he tells her “this is not dinner/ conversation” (21-22) and adds in a jab about how his new girlfriend “doesn't talk about stuff like that at all” (23). Aptowicz's level of self-consciousness is very important in this book because it makes her seem relatable and human. She knows she ought to look away from these cruel and absurd examples of human behavior, says she should be writing “about the shiny new year,” but she can't get her mind to move beyond the flashing lights of history books and news articles.
The poems in this collection serve as glimpses into the places Aptowicz meanders while searching for something else, perhaps that “shiny key” she mentions in the book's first poem, “Reader.” There are several touching moments in this book where she seems to grasp hold of something that's shiny and wonderful enough to justify its often unsettling pursuit. Some of her poems focus on the trials and tribulations of being in and out of love (ex: “Drunk Boyfriend at The Poetry Reading” and “Not As Smart as I Think I Am”), but several of the poems also reveal Aptowicz and her partner (Shappy) as adorably quirky, poet-geek, soul-mates. In “Use Your Words,” Aptowicz and “Uncle Shappy” go to visit her nephew and band together to teach the toddler to use his “action words,” like “Pow!” and “Boof!” The ultimate stanza of this poem speaks for itself:
My brother discovers us unable to stop laughing,
his son creating his first two-word sentence: Butt Pow!
As he runs around in circles, punching his own ass.
This is how the world creates great artists, I explain. (20-24)
Poems like this one create a resounding sense of hope in this book—maybe her mind wanders into places that are unsettling, maybe she experiences heartbreak and despair sometimes, but she winds up with someone who can't help but laugh at her little nephew running around punching himself in the ass and exclaiming, “Butt Pow!”
This collection concludes with “A Poem Not About the Brooklyn Bridge,” where Aptowicz and her partner are shopping for Christmas cards, and she is upset that the store only has cards with pictures of the Brooklyn Bridge, as opposed to any of the fine bridges in their neighborhood, Queens. This poem ends the collection on a very settling note:
Some days I think we are those beer bottles, crushed against
the city until it transforms us. Other times, I think we are
that park, still green and hopeful in willful spite of everything
around us. But the best times, I think we are those bridges,
tying together where we were to where we are going, beautiful
and strong and doing our job, even if no one takes our picture,
even if no one remembers our name. (37-43)
Yes, sometimes she has desperate hours, thinks she and her partner are "those beer bottles, crushed against / the city" (37-38). But she also gets to have "the best times," gets to think that they're “those bridges / tying together where we were to where we are going,” that they're something "beautiful / and strong" (40-42).
STEVIE EDWARDS spent her formative years in Lansing, MI, and currently lives and works in Chicago, IL. She is currently working on her first collection of poetry (tentatively titled Good Grief). Her work has appeared in several literary journals, including Word Riot, PANK Magazine, and Monkeybicycle. She completed her BA at Albion College (a liberal arts school in Michigan) in 2009, where she worked as Poetry & Fiction Editor for the Albion Review. She plans to pursue an MFA in creative writing sometime in the not-too-distant future. She is doing pretty okay for 23 most days.
Some Muzzle readers may know Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz best for her contributions to the slam poetry community, particularly for founding and hosting the esteemed NYC-Urbana poetry slam. In addition to her abounding performance poetry credentials, Aptowicz also has an impressive publishing record. She has published five collections of poetry and numerous poems in literary journals, including Rattle, Hayden's Ferry Review, Pank, decomP, and (of course) the inaugural issue of Muzzle. Her most recently published collection of poetry, Everything is Everything, oscillates between moments that make me want to laugh until it hurts, buy a more reliable deadbolt, and give someone pretty and wonderful a big, fat kiss.
Everything is Everything begins with a poem simply titled, “Reader.” This poem can serve as a directive to the reader on how to make meaning out of the rest of the poems in the collection. Aptowicz begins by describing categories that poems can often fall into:
Some poems read like a bookshelf.
The poets carefully putting each word
in its place, snug and sure and right. . .
Still others feel like a come on,
something you can't believe still works,
and yet here you are, in bed with it. (1-3, 6-9)
She proceeds to explain that her poems “are like the hot panic you feel / when you are sure you've lost something / and dump your bag on the table” and “the things which / tumble out of the bag: the menus, the post-its. . .” (10-14). I was originally surprised by this claim that her poems are like “hot panic.” Based on the little bits of her work I'd heard performed or read on the page, I was expecting a book of poetry that would underscore the bizarre in life and give me a good, hard belly-laugh. This book certainly does both of those things, but the “hot panic” is also there. These poems represent the places a disquieted and trivia-filled mind glitches on when searching for some elusive “shiny key / needed to open that stubborn door” (20-21).
In many of these poems Aptowicz's mind glitches on fairly obscure and grotesque examples of human behavior. Notably, three poems in this book (“Why I Shouldn't Read Books,” “How Carpophorus Did It,” and “Poetry Reading, Inauguration Night, New York City”) deal with giraffes specially trained to rape women as punishment in Ancient Rome. In “A Short History of Unusual Fish,” Aptowicz tells a story about Albert Fish, a serial killer who “kept sticking / sewing needles in the soft space he found / between his penis and scrotum,” eventually causing sparks to fly from his crotch as the electric chair shorted out (17-19). Additionally, in “Be Prepared,” she tells about how during the Black Plague the Saxon army catapulted infected corpses at their enemies. While reading the aforementioned poems, I often found myself shocked into laughter by Aptowicz's witty renderings of these horrific stories and the overall bizarreness of the images (ex: sparks flying out of Albert Fish's pin-cushion crotch), and then feeling very guilty for laughing at things that are truly cruel and horrible.
One might wonder why a poet would want to write about horrifying things like giraffes being trained to rape women. So does Aptowicz. In “Why I Shouldn't Read Books” (one of the poems about rapist giraffes), she notes that she “should be writing poetry / about the shiny new year or my pink cheeked nephews” (40-41), instead of reading books that make her “look like the world's creepiest conversationalist” (47). Additionally, when she recounts the story of Albert Fish to her ex-boyfriend in “A Short History of Unusual Fish,” he tells her “this is not dinner/ conversation” (21-22) and adds in a jab about how his new girlfriend “doesn't talk about stuff like that at all” (23). Aptowicz's level of self-consciousness is very important in this book because it makes her seem relatable and human. She knows she ought to look away from these cruel and absurd examples of human behavior, says she should be writing “about the shiny new year,” but she can't get her mind to move beyond the flashing lights of history books and news articles.
The poems in this collection serve as glimpses into the places Aptowicz meanders while searching for something else, perhaps that “shiny key” she mentions in the book's first poem, “Reader.” There are several touching moments in this book where she seems to grasp hold of something that's shiny and wonderful enough to justify its often unsettling pursuit. Some of her poems focus on the trials and tribulations of being in and out of love (ex: “Drunk Boyfriend at The Poetry Reading” and “Not As Smart as I Think I Am”), but several of the poems also reveal Aptowicz and her partner (Shappy) as adorably quirky, poet-geek, soul-mates. In “Use Your Words,” Aptowicz and “Uncle Shappy” go to visit her nephew and band together to teach the toddler to use his “action words,” like “Pow!” and “Boof!” The ultimate stanza of this poem speaks for itself:
My brother discovers us unable to stop laughing,
his son creating his first two-word sentence: Butt Pow!
As he runs around in circles, punching his own ass.
This is how the world creates great artists, I explain. (20-24)
Poems like this one create a resounding sense of hope in this book—maybe her mind wanders into places that are unsettling, maybe she experiences heartbreak and despair sometimes, but she winds up with someone who can't help but laugh at her little nephew running around punching himself in the ass and exclaiming, “Butt Pow!”
This collection concludes with “A Poem Not About the Brooklyn Bridge,” where Aptowicz and her partner are shopping for Christmas cards, and she is upset that the store only has cards with pictures of the Brooklyn Bridge, as opposed to any of the fine bridges in their neighborhood, Queens. This poem ends the collection on a very settling note:
Some days I think we are those beer bottles, crushed against
the city until it transforms us. Other times, I think we are
that park, still green and hopeful in willful spite of everything
around us. But the best times, I think we are those bridges,
tying together where we were to where we are going, beautiful
and strong and doing our job, even if no one takes our picture,
even if no one remembers our name. (37-43)
Yes, sometimes she has desperate hours, thinks she and her partner are "those beer bottles, crushed against / the city" (37-38). But she also gets to have "the best times," gets to think that they're “those bridges / tying together where we were to where we are going,” that they're something "beautiful / and strong" (40-42).
STEVIE EDWARDS spent her formative years in Lansing, MI, and currently lives and works in Chicago, IL. She is currently working on her first collection of poetry (tentatively titled Good Grief). Her work has appeared in several literary journals, including Word Riot, PANK Magazine, and Monkeybicycle. She completed her BA at Albion College (a liberal arts school in Michigan) in 2009, where she worked as Poetry & Fiction Editor for the Albion Review. She plans to pursue an MFA in creative writing sometime in the not-too-distant future. She is doing pretty okay for 23 most days.