WillieWorld is a 59 page poem/prosepoem drawn from the author's ten years' experience as a full time paramedic in New York City's 911 system. It is scary and dreamy; heartbreaking, funny, and gorgeous. "He was just lying on the sidewalk, with his head all wet and cold. 'Jean-Paul,' I said, 'do you want to go to the hospital?' He said no, so I knew that something was wrong. We put him on the stretcher and covered him up. 'Jean,' I said, 'do you know who I am?' He took a long time to answer. 'Girlfriend . . . I dont want to play today . . . I feel too bad . . .' We took him to the hospital. He had a core temperature of eighty-two degrees. Another hour and he would have been dead. The next time I saw him I said, 'Jean-Paul, do you remember when I picked you up half dead?' He was laughing. He said, 'Girlfriend, theres no such thing. Dead is dead, and arent I talking now?'" (from WillieWorld) Cover art by David Wojnarowicz.
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Book Description
Editorial Reviews
About the Author
Maggie Dubris is a poet, 911 paramedic, and a guitarist/songwriter for the band Homer Erotic. Her writing has been published in Cuz, Exquisite Corpse, The World, and other literary magazines. She is working on a novel called Skels.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
From WillieWorld by Maggie Dubris:
The hospital that I work for is the only hospital in the country to ever go into bankruptcy and then come back out of it again. Everyone is very proud of this for some reason. It was the first thing the personnel director told me when I came to apply for the job. I didn't know what I was supposed to say back, so I said, "Oh, really?" But the hospital is still what you might call financially embarrassed. None of the check cashing places will take our paychecks, and we're always getting cut off at the gas station. Actually, I don't mind the situation at all. It adds a lawless edge to things. There are always notes up on the bulletin board telling us what to steal for the day. Sometimes we develop a surplus. Right now, we have a surplus of backboards. What we do is we get all the backboards that other ambulances have brought in and left on patients, and we spray-paint them black. Then we stack them up by the side door. We also like to steal metal scoop stretchers. Our supervisor takes them and removes all the identifying numbers with paint stripper. It's kind of a hobby of his, I guess.
They say that time is a thief, but we are the ones who steal moments alone. And cross off days as if they were lovers, hanging against that yellow kitchen wall. It's like, one day the circus walks in to town. And keeps on walking to the sea, to drown . . .
What I dream of is a village. Built in stone and held in terror.
What I dream of is a satellite.
Thrown cold and white across the sky.
And when I take a walk, I see the blue air fill with shiny planes.
Tinged with shadow. Glazed in pink.
Tossed up against the breaking day.
Nobody knows why Jean-Paul stopped breathing. He just stopped breathing. So his heart stopped beating. It was daytime. The ambulance got there and he was lying against the wall. One of the store owners had soaked a rag with ammonia, and put it over his face to wake him up. But he didn't wake up. He just lay there with the rag on his face. And they got out of the ambulance and started kicking him. After awhile, they figured out that he wasn't breathing. But they didn't want to start CPR right away. Because they were just kicking him. So they got out the stretcher, and they put him on it, and they put it back in the back of the ambulance. Then they did CPR on him. Then they drove him to the hospital. At the hospital the doctors got his heart started. He was brain dead. So they took him off the respirator. But he was still breathing. So they took him out of the ICU and put him on a ward. They made him a No Code. My partner and I went up to visit him. His eyes were going blink blink blink. When I touched him he was so hot. As hot as tar. It was his brain burning up his body as it died.
On the black black sand. He can stand. He can sleep.
On the cold black beach. He can sleep. Beside the ocean.
In the cold cold wind. He can sleep. Beneath the sand.
Jean-Paul DiVersailles, take one giant step
back into the land of the living.
May I?
No you may not!
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More About the Author
Maggie Dubris was born in Georgia, grew up in Maryland and Michigan, and moved to New York City the minute she graduated from high school. She worked for over 20 years as a 911 paramedic in Manhattan, mainly in Hell's Kitchen, and was a guitarist/songwriter for the all female extravaganza, Homer Erotic. Maggie is the author of Skels (Soft Skull Press), Weep Not, My Wanton (Black Sparrow Press) and In The Dust Zone (Centre-Ville Books). She is presently working on a non-fiction book about St. Clare's Hospital, where she worked for all those years, which was shut down in 2007. She is now employed as a professional hypnotist, and has a black belt in karate. Her current goals are to finish the new book, learn how to hoop fire, and figure out how to play the Northumbrian Smallpipes, a set of which she owns.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
dark jewel, apocalyptic vision,
By A Customer
This review is from: WillieWorld (Paperback)
This is a dark little jewel of a book, sustained not by plot, but by the apocalyptic glimpses of the city and the stark intensity of the writing. I had to read it in short sessions, because it kept taking my breath away. Not a happy book; in fact, sinister, but painfully authentic art.
5.0 out of 5 stars
Wow,
By A Customer
This review is from: WillieWorld (Paperback)
Willieworld is absolutely marvelous. I found it to be hypnotic and powerful. It was impossible to put it down. The mixture of prose and poems is unusual and wonderful. The author handles this highly volatile subject matter with such passion,humor and grace, I was astounded. I will be keeping a sharp eye out for more writing by Maggie Dubris. I highly recommend this short book. I don't think you will be disappointed
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