| Brendan Lorber HAZARD POM-POM I begin with nothing left to witness & every interpretation turned on its ass I begin translated without permission drawn back into a stranger's pen for future use I begin with no place left to begin Inheritance fills even the wires in my house Someone's will is electric & our hair extends itself in anticipation of dust Someone's will is encoded in dust & we follow it back to the source like tugging on a phone cord to get to the ringer Someone's will is an inventory of breath & the estate is spent as each item gets pronounced Only what's left out is what's left Begin within storage space pre-filled by people you could look up & their boxes fill every corner Every angle's been anticipated & the door's blocked Broke from the outset heir to all the memories in the world when all I want is what's been forgotten Begin after belatedness & no ginseng cocktail fills the defeated present in time to be prophetic I begin in a bad economy for prophets so I temp instead I was born nostalgic but what did the past bring us? The first car alarms of summer play keep away with leafy thickets as one answer to desire that flutters thru my window I begin on the sofa leafing through the alumni magazine & a trunk thick with old anthologies Begin with a c:\ drive of old love letters & under the anthologies their responses fuzzy with answers My neighbor yells thru the window What's the most important thing you can bring someone? But he's full of himself tonight & whatever I have to say he wants me to keep it From arrogant beginnings I refuse directions & fail to notice nobody's offering Let's say what's omitted from the will is booty under the river or in the ducts of a hirise - in the gold rush you knew paydirt but now toothbite authenticity's forever lost in the glare of gold teeth I glance at my neighbor & find the street layered & half-naked The evening air shudders over the impossibility of providing electricity to everyone searching at once The lights go out The alarms are useless & I begin with a stolen name I begin in debt to the original owners & to the looters in a dark musical storefront Call me infringement Call me samples Move one song to the next My patron saint wants his groove back & all the saints rise up superfluous as answered questions & are absorbed into the scratched ranks of all of us the needle pops on vinyl The yesses & nos I begin under the contents of a warehouse who's main accomplishment is continuing to exist despite serving no purpose Stuffed animals & letters resist destruction exiled in the transistor dailyness of music as end & not the source the strapping tape admonishes "Don't be playing that dusty thing in here" I begin to pull things from my room to throw out & the more I do the more I witness the neighbors strolling in my clothes "Yr throwing yr life away" someone says & the neighbors get that too abandon their own adolescence for mine I leave my home in glorious defeat to make room for myself This shirt needs constant abandonment as precursor to responsibility & any hand I bite becomes the one that feeds me On the street I begin to get it without lateral thinking or scientific synthesis It's a night like any other except the air conditioners refuse to drip & every little motor has gone dead The lights have cut out & the city is shed by something that gave it shape Less a snake & more the leg of a teenager dropping his jeans Losing it has nothing to do with Buddhism & the individual talent for feng shui Razor blade this stanza for the energy from under it & look down from the hazy roof into the future where even the exercise of touching yourself becomes articulate communication when you need it most Rosy palm where did you get well read? I used to talk to animals & forces of nature but now I am one in the bay area of my mind with thirteen ways of cooking up a blackbird A roll of the dice will eliminate the chance I'll choose the thirteenth - with the plums inthe fridge I move from the Food Channel to the naked talk shows & on to waves of scramble I begin with acquiescence or begin with resistance - both fissures packed with rickety inheritance I begin incomplete with static & buggy code From the glimpse its impossible to tell if the people around the garden bonfire or the bulldozer diesel is singing I speak for nobody & carry too many I's for any one to speak for me Everything achieves its own wiry consciousness & as I move from one bug drawn horsey to the next each demands a certain allegiance I begin to think this is living this cracking tire I begin to think old sandals are living Abandoned TVs at the dump and the dump is alive too & sets out across itself the home of the consumed the home of acquiescence & resistance as the rickety beginning until it too becomes the will's witness & facts are alive living off their hosts until the host dies or the fact runs its finite course I open a box of old Mad Magazines & stuffed animals & they talk to me Is everything alive? That's right said the sun & darkly he sank under the horizon for the first night of summer & the marquee lights are all Now Playing The theater the only place with juice in the city & now I begin to roll audio & risk the didactic chant of all summer blockbusters "In a world without law he went to law school" says the voiceover who's inability to get it right is the only timeless element so far - the world does have laws which expire the moment they're exposed to the evening air & fill it with their faint perfume The interior of the theater has its own aromas & is a good place to have sex or steal lines Same for a bar's bathroom Nine months after blackouts the best poems tend to reveal themselves I notice the expanding trailer & begin to doubt the presence of a movie beyond it It's been picked clean & the tie-ins are all that's left - Chapstick & Banaca but no kiss doesn't phase me I'm the grip with a flashlight behind the scrim pretending to be the sun I am young DeNiro with a thousand faces I shot a film in Reno just to watch it twice I sketched the Titanic hitting Claus Oldenberg & nobody's laughed yet but they will someday! & I raise me glass to this future you with devout admiration I admire anyone who can glue a fish to their new car tho admiration includes a kind of pity - imprisonment of being loved for specific things at the expense of all others "All you need is one good idea" Gefilte Darwin Christ make me a miracle of the three fishes kind of guy & because of that I'll never own a car I'm the face with a thousand heroes on his shelf & the screen on which I type is my only property I travel light & now the lights are out at every intersection Does the immanent pileup the presence of facts make a narrative? Do the multiple I's come from lyric or experimental impulses or does curiosity for what's invisible put us in the blind intersection of all urges? This is a line you'd hear in class and the one you'd see if you snipped out the earlier stanza You wanted to but something held you back despite the glistening lips & minty breath Thru the hole in the page the evening sky glistens & is divvied up An endless array of people float overhead on the phone hot & talking in the dark about the heat & the dark I begin to think life is a means to disseminate Darwin fishes or perhaps fingernails & hair In the grave of some ancestor the fingernails & hair continue to grow because nothing in the genes tell them to quit In my brain Mad Magazine satires coil endlessly for movies I never saw & why worry about it - the directors made so many mistakes I begin in a spoof of dust & head out floating above the perceptive obsolescence of Bobby McFaren & David Letterman who sampled the gospel of Alfred E Neuman The nostalgic brain's a coffin for memories No way to treat a fact Forget it The plug in clock is frozen at the moment the lights went out & becomes a history text I begin to situate in time but the VCRclock flashes noon all night & with a grin I switch to another gospel that comes to us from the open windows of a city that's seen as everything - I'd know that voice anywhere! It's you! The receiver of this poem! You begin with the same line I do & in yr window you read as I write it full of skepticism How these beginnings might not be - a John Hancock implies the declaration's complete - Perhaps the conventions of yr clock won't contain any animated suspension - but this stanza vaults thru the sky to where you live all unpinned - you have what I almost told my neighbor - for the man who has everything I end in you with questions Does anything last? Walk with me to the corner where the deli defends unfrozen food? We begin as servants to the nation of hyphens & quotes valets to famous shoppers & shoplifters I rise you rise we all rise to the throne of ice cream empires as stores bring out melting food Does anything not melt? Please translate this question into whatever language supercedes this one when the lights come back on It seems anything that has a beginning has an end but seems already had its finale & the curtain drops with a swooshing complaint "I never know if yr serious or not" Hancock I said because I didn't know his name the uncertainty surrounds us For christ's sake he sd get outside & stop stealing my lines Plagiarism bestows a kind of immortality but how many poets can I rip off & still get some blurbs? I begin with a blurb Does anything matter? Yes but not for long Even the idea of writing with a gluestick I lifted from you Paste the cut out stanza here or with yr own work Don't play the record when you can play with it The mortality of a poem converts it to bumper crop & you will be brilliant Stop me if you wrote this one already In my looted shoes I walk across the street my heart fettered by nothing but three or four millennia of poetry Does anything matter? Yes but nothing exists I begin to not exist Are these dashes - are they Emily's In America we have freedom to ignore speech In the Soviet Union everybody listens but where's that? I keep moving back & forth in time My writing is a clock a man dangles from Will he fall? Will he insist these are painterly techniques - the push & pull pom pom dollop as an afterthought still after erased like neighbors into the charcoal corridor of my building & I climb the stairs I begin to sweat the mannerism less & more the infinite regress of honesty You were asleep & naked on the couch Before leaving I leave a note "My Love I leave this note to treasure forever at the expense of the instant you read it" To hold infinity in the palm of yr hand must the length of yr arm be infinite? The intimate gesture of spilling the beans on yr exes Even the litany of names involves a certain forsaking of responsibility to everyone ever involved If each love's a response to the next then "I've given you all & now I'm nothing" but an expert on human nature But "the only nature in the city is up" Little divots of sky I begin on the urban hammock of the fire escape I regress to inform you this blacked out night is a time machine that extends to the last outage or rather the city shutters itself inside dark simulations of a night before boutiques arrived to qualify life This was where boughs of holly ended up in January before we inherited a century of manuscripts & the light to read them by This was a parking lot now its all covered with cafes From the fire escape I clamber into anyone's history your history & leave notes on the couch that pull you away from it I declare the couch a dramatic turning point I'm dizzy on the sofa where my history collides with those of all poetics so I revise both to avoid inadvertent pretensions His little horse thought it queer / but never squealed out of fear / Robert Frost stopped in the woods / by neighbor's wall built so good / to watch the shallow grave he dug / fill up with snow - a chilly rug I begin with every incoherence cobbled into another idea of order which breaks down faster than the first How can Sylvia Plath stay underground if she keeps winning prizes as fictional poet "John Ashbery?" My beginning is part of the problem Negative capability is part Sprung rhythm Asphodel that greeny problem I begin with no reason to begin Nothing to leave you What of mine would you want or want to leave for others? He always flowed too gracefully or tried too hard not to What gets discussed in the seminar eulogy of a poem Young & didactic or too mutilated to identify? What need could be met by this? After so many years I remain white and so on My insistence in the liquidity of all things is suspect Is there a problem here I haven't worked out a way to cause for others? The conference ends without truce But the subjective & objective scholars believe in truce They believe in arrival They leave their meeting & amble across the street under my fire escape & agree to wave hello continuing their colorful downtown stroll where common is meaningless & ground is meaningless in the hazard blinkers of a power company truck They hold hands I begin downtown where there is no downtown I begin in the Mission without one I begin in Hyde Park I begin on the Rive Gauche I begin on Bourbon Street I begin in Amsterdam In Camden Town In Berlin I begin along the snapped filament The bulb languorously reflects the dark room around it like a hand lifted & then put back in one's lap I begin after the codification of excitement & play I begin after dreams & trips are mined bare I begin in the grave of every ethnographer's poetry journal No frontier except the slim volume of time that shoves me towards my own will No other except what I'll become One begins bucolic & the tanks clog the view Another begins with clanking problems & then the war is over Who are you? Rush hour's a little late tonight but the workers make it home - their apathy is a sacrifice to they make to identify with anything It's a kind of duty Identity demands you slip into something more responsible & agreeing is a kind of apathy I used to screen my calls because I was too busy but now its out of sloth But I still never answer anything I begin after any last words after stammering & fugue after ambition to maintain electricity thru an entire poem I begin after performance in praise of lament I begin the in field of framed detritus in the instant of flash or rust or quotation that accelerates until the gap is gone between composition & consumption Every answer is merely a thousand questions I'm always coming I'm always beginning I end with invocation All solutions are the problem You've got problems & I love you Facts can't save us so we have to save them & all ephemera I admire the grace & beauty of yr ways but who needs it I was born with them too at least in a blacked out out corridor The whirling state of enthusiasm is the only real need & admiration is needed on every fire escape for the divots of sky I admire the facts you have the compassion to save yet we don't need each other We don't need a thing & are moving always from inheritance into love I'm always falling in love with you & now I'm falling in love & now I have some questions for you & ascend into love & now I begin July 1999 Poetry Index |