The poet and writer, 66, on punk poetry, seeing her own funeral and dating younger women
If I hadn’t given up drinking, I’d be dead. I’ll be 33 years sober in May, and I’m 66 years old. Thirty-three has been a magic number for me for so many years, because in a way it was the year that I died. When I first got sober and I walked through New York, I felt like a ghost. And there were so many ghosts of nights and stories around the city.
I’m really not a punk poet. But I got known as one because I wrote a poem about how I didn’t care that Robert Lowell had died. I was young, and I thought we should celebrate poets when they’re alive and then just shit on them when they die.
I’ve been having a good time. I’m waiting for people to really start to hate me
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