The recent work by Alice Notley I've seen in journals like The Poker and The Canary has really blown me away, and made me realize how little of her work I'm familiar with beyond glances at The Descent of Alette, Mysteries of Small Houses, and a few anthologized poems. So a great place to start is her classic Waltzing Matilda, first published in 1981 by Lita Hornick's Kulchur Foundation, and reissued in 2003 by Jack Kimball's Faux Press.
I picked up a copy at St. Mark's Books this last weekend, and it was about time. Here's the untitled piece on pg. 91:
It can be later the same evening not the way I had it to begin with. One of them was & to no purpose. I can't I can't lose it quite simply, this minute this quite simply this, even though I can't quite I almost finished this quite cheap way of getting it which is answering some other person's that or philosophy. And then pay some more, let's go find him in Maggie's whorehouse & take the bottle away. Your play, quite simply your Fate says, I don't know what that means. Fuck 'em. Look just give me about five thousand. Then we guarantee the beauty be taken care of, I just realized I don't know any rich people. Man just give me the fuckin' rent money, it's for someone more beautiful than me, the other me, the need glee depressions feeling, the beautiful homosexual I used to be. It's much too late for me to be up worrying about this, children get up soon, my panties all unwashed, I something something my tits & said no green-grey clarity all day dammit poseless in a turquoise nightgown inside from a silky rain. There's no one more beautiful than me though, no. Jesus this poor girl, she really fucked old Shep, she got the inner ear scene for which there is no cure & I don't know whether to give her a B or a C. Fuck her inner ear. I give her C.