Some Old Poems

Briggs Room Reading

Stanford University Spring 1984

Hi there, everybody.

This August I was sitting outside the Student Union reading To the Lighthouse and

thinking about how my mother would attain the literary buoyancy of Mrs. Ramsey.

It was a spacey day, and out of the store comes this little kid

with a woman I presumed to be his Ma. The woman had three chocolate bars

and she gave the child one half of one. The Union bees were waiting for him to open it.

They had already crawled into my coke can, too intent on sucking sugar up

to sting me when I waved at them. The woman gives the child her chocolate bar

and she walks away, and I might have seen her start eating, but reading all day

made me too tired to turn my neck, so I just heard her unwrapping.

Then the child said the first two lines of my poem. I was blown away by the beauty of his words

and how they represented in haiku implicitness the perfect tasty union

of mother and child. Then the child said the third line of my poem and

that changed everything. Because the word that is my poem�s second line was misspoken.

The child was about four. And he meant to say something else, that, in order to say,

he had to add a couple of cloggy syllables. What before had been sweet now signified

a kind of craving I knew more closely, and I guessed that the woman was probably a sitter,

not a Ma.

The last three lines are mine.

�Sweetness Alighting�

�Me and my Ma

are chocolate.

Choclaholics.�

Always

a ways

away.

This next poem was conceived while working the graveyard shift

at a Mighty Taco on the east side of Buffalo. The key situation of this place:

Everyone I had successfully avoided on the streets for the four years prior

all came in to buy food after drinking. The poem is about Deb,

the junior assistant manager.

�Deb Says She Will Lose Weight Soon�

Your thighs are capsized canoes.

But this is bliss.

My maya and your maya.

You lean over my lap.

The handiwipe is in the sink.

And your breasts are encyclopedias.

They are heavy.

They are stiff.

Never been used.

World Books.

We scrape the red right off our faces.

The first book of poetry I purchased was Wordsworth�s collected poems,

near Edmonton, Alberta. I was working on famous Al Oeming�s Game Farm

literally dawn to dusk, shoveling shit into the pick-up.

I memorized the first sections of the Immortality Ode

while trying to spot the buffalo who had the runs. Because once you saw

the runs you had to report it and then watch for it to happen again

so you could shoot a dart into the animal and give it medicine.

This was the only part of the job I liked.

�Under Wordsworth�

�There was a time

when meadow, grove,

and stream� –

filled my genderless eyes

with steam

and with blood.

I kicked mud

but being spry

didn�t eat

mud.

Vapor sleeves lid up

the waterfall�s drawers

like football player

hobgoblins.

I plopped in

the hole the splashing gored

and stayed there

perky

until I heard my friends

coming, throwing

twigs at the hanging

pine cones.

This is a poem about a wimp from my childhood named Higgins, who was large but weak, who nonetheless had a large and strong dog, named Arhumba. Arhumba bit the ear off Dirky, my best friend�s dog. This poem is not about that particular incident.

�Remorse Years Later�

Those boxing gloves

Given to Mickey Higgins

Made him even easier

To beat up.

I wrote this poem the morning my first day working at Xerox,

a morning that marked the beginning of me getting back on the stick,

said my Ma, who was driving the car. I was looking out the windows

and recalled that scene in �Taxi Driver� where Travis drops an alka seltzer

into the glass and, a Zen trainee, absorbs himself into its patternless plop and fizz.

�Rural Red Light�

He goes through it.

We sink.

without

bubbles.

Our samsara waits on Fairport

�s nirvana.

A spent strawberry field

and mushy yellow cambium

crave another galaxy�s

smoother

religion.

Robert Creeley and Lou Reed seemed to take on a greater significance for me

after I left Buffalo and moved to Palo Alto and lived in an apartment complex called

�Tan Village.� California! Only when I returned to Buffalo did I discover that the place

was owned by a man actually named Mr. Tan.

�Proof�

Proud words like lurid

need lines longer than

Creeley�s breathed-in ones

lines drunk with nouns

aims for our irises

shingleboards

denting our nuts

or any kind of play

biting the hair

of the night

or noon

and after — .

Live with

out bur-

glary of

mind

lone

II.

�Lou Reed is Saved in Newark�

(after Lester Bangs)

�WANTED

LOU REED

DEAD OR ALIVE

(what�s the difference)

for transforming a whole generation

of young Americans into faggot junkies.�

Is there any word

I can use

and how much

does it

cost

to leave

here?

sweet nuthin�

sweet Jane –

unroll,

rock your hearts.

This is pretty much the first poem I wrote. I wrote it in Nevada, 1979:

East of Reno, on the banks of Interstate 80. I stood in one place for 25 hours

with a sign that said �HOME.� Normally this was a fabulously successful sign.

Three cars emitted �Ohhhhs� that were split by the Dopler Effect

as they locked their doors. Although I was hitching alone, I imagined myself

with my brother, Christopher. When I rolled his boyscout sleeping bag out

I started having desert hallucinations. I overheard four people

arguing at a table that had a red and white checkerboarded cloth on top of it.

Then I heard the A side of Tom Petty�s �You�re Gonna Get It� album

and understood and remembered all the words for the first time.

Me and my brother started to dance.

�Two Days in One Place�

The Reno truckstop is behind us

and Christopher�s halo and frantic rap

have unraveled and scattered

into entropic bits of benzedrine psychosis.

Morning is still early rinsed orange

but my sneaker treads are melting.

Mindlessly I roll

my dewy down bag just right.

My brother sucks breath from this skinny roach

and sends melancholy streams of smoke

skidding across seed-heavy heads

of ochre desert weeds.

I console my brother.

�Two more of these black ones,

will wring what�s left

from your dopamine glands.

�So be happy.

And take my place by the roadside

and thumb till noon.

Dance where the roads merge.

�I am just one yawning fucker.

Tonight, brother, we are going to brush our teeth in Cheyenne.�

Tequila Mocking

�Tequila Mocking�

Shudder again Basil, at your success

Better pleasures will surely follow

And alter your odor

So another shudder

It all seems to be there now

What you have wrecked has been moved away

Between lunch and nighttime chocolate

Fred found your blonde tequila

It was in a bottle it was on a table it was in

Another neighborhood

Private language exposed.

�My Drive Home�

Driving home from the Main Street tequila store

it hit me that this love

I am now suffering is not

a new kind of love remember

what you wanted to give the woman I wanted

to be her friend. She is married and has two young sons.

Promiscuity will save me from this

before virtue does. Should I put a hymn to her

here? What should it contain? Her hair

when it is parted down the middle & right now

also my fear, that I would flood the one

who would alleviate my loneliness – my love

restrains itself from its object, her

shoulder, eye, her hood & her nod,

hymen, toe,

hair & ear.

�Tequila Man�

I will sleep where the dog sleeps.

�The dog sleeps under my bed.�

The kind of guy you never get friendly with,

�the kind of guy you miss the most.�

I closed my eyes

�to see yourself�

near the coffee in my cup

�and saw yourself�

on Bailey Avenue

�with a cup you cut with white tequila.�

�The Shine�

I have walked up another hill

And hated its perfection

The brown shine of its beauty

I know all the ways your sweater turns to beer

I have lied to your perhaps you know when.

But it must be

Never merely

This and here

Shutter tomorrow�s

Minding, kiss

All four lips

And keep this

As you have

It. Love and

Glow of gut.

With the endurance of tequila

I have found no reason to move

My small wares to Budapest

For rage does not enhance reason

Though it feels necessarily human

Like a vice, or an eyelash.

Your music, honeypie, was the new necessary.

It was good as bone on a wet day.

First bone, final wet day.

Just that you smack it

Can I crave my

only body now.

�This Morning�

After four hours I�m

up, & I smell

like tequila & piss

& that too smells like

tequila, & my teeth

tequila, underarms are

my favorite & best,

like tequila & also

you. My dreams one wash

of you, that�s all,

I can�t believe I am

alone right now or

how much I talked just

in order to

avoid letting you know

you have given me

the quote unquote world

& such coolness cost me!

Who drove me here?

Running puff puff

puff four no-shirt

sidewalk miles, my lungs

will love me forever

& I smoke to spite them

but I get thru my run

hit the park for pull-ups

but there�s two kids

swinging on my set & two

others sprinting beneath

them like maniacs in a queer

kiddy game of near

collision. I check out the world.

Bark pieces are in between

my toes (which smell

like tequila) & all Moms

seem old today,

wearing lots of coats.

But I know that this

morning you too awakened

with your cat, perhaps,

on top of you, but also I�m embarrassed

I�ve taken this long

even to know

I haven�t been able

yet, to say,

just what there is,

I mean, here. Hi there.

II.

I started by wanting

to say I

was going to sit

here

all

night

until I said it.

But it hit

the impossible

task

I had set

for

myself

was to sit here

& all night

until I

did

it.

"Running with Ish"

I. Run –

The orphan.

The family.

The neighborhood.

The striding.

The Sunday.

The foods.

The beds.

The porches.

The restaurants.

The generations.

The off-time.

The marriage.

The hammock.

The payment.

The working.

The abortions.

The dresses.

The soirees.

The twins.

The musicians!

The air inside.

The lovely try.

The team member.

The biggest race.

The red present.

The cot-winners.

The good sinners.

The take-home meals.

The three watchers.

The faith-healers.

The one, one male.

The taste of yum.

The lovely look,

Around the arm.

Atop the mom,

The sweat and goop.

The crack alight.

The motel room.

The rented car.

The near-deaf teen!

Money for time.

Soup for you.

Match for me.

Television for us.

Ideas for travel.

Kisses for sleep.

Blows for change.

And room for everybody.

Help for us.

�Out for good,

oh, for shame.�

Sins for that.

Locks for legs.

Tears for effect.

Shoes for parties.

Hands for holding.

Rolls for noses.

Air for outside.

Cotton for comfort.

Extras for leaving!

II. Back –

Two divorced men,

the desire to write.

the night within Palo Alto.

The music too loud,

the wear of masturbation,

the vodka in coffee.

The friends in Buffalo

trust of the past,

the surprising poem.

Pissing in the backyard,

the patience they all have,

the tape Ish listened to.

The brother�s brother,

the inhabited apartment,

Being on to something.

You are not in jail,

clothes in the dryer,

Saturday is different.

Elsewhere I think,

telephone one�s son,

the lovely landlord.

Loud all these years,

unified isn�t it,

it made the driveway.

Increasing ugliness,

the friend is immoral,

too dead to speak.

Unaware of this again,

Karen Carpenter is back,

gossip gives birth.

My joy is yours,

the kiss on the arm,

two first names.

Finally got it down,

anything in bed,

Christmas and holidays.

The alarming arrival,

words in the morning:

what blood got.

It should catch you:

It was hard to say:

You don�t re-

member a lot

of it,

of spray on our ceiling.

�Clean As a Whistle�

The completed sentence

to stand alone

away from all

things. Away from

a way to

complete a lone

sentence. The standing

thing away alone.

Bailey Avenue Buffalo Poems

"Prelude to a New Career"

Today is finally our day

To write poems whose lines

Are exactly of equal length

When written in longhand

And without enough weapons

To show I

Can put up with your

Pages and pants. Did I say,

�Just love?� Yes, a mere

Fair love, a fast ass, a

Coquette, one just

Stretched, to make it, to

Pack it, in,

Toward our night, our

Soiree, or your thin opalescence,

Or your men, wee bones, the pelt

Of our beer, when broken

Throughout, by straws.

The next movement from all those

Epiphanies is the worst:

Cut clogged sod

Wadded in our mouths before

The end. I can�t stand it. Oh man:

Are your dad�s hands like yours?

Are those my dungarees heated

In the holy water, so near

His One Mouth in Twilight?

I am not guilty of that, but

Of this:

Making an interrupting

Move – that is, you there.

We must scratch. Your un-

Mothered word, hurting

My teeth. We must scratch

Oh, it. For instance, I

Have been reading about it

And reading a lot, about them,

Like wanting to find one:

Libya�s bee going backwards

Manoeuvring the steering wheel

While the other poets wriggle lamb

Embryos over the rocks the Balls (surely)

Of God.

Must I guess this, sniffing like a glug

In a mug?

Their eyes peer down

And cats are often in the photo.

Otherwise they are alone, while �ad-

Dressing,� yanking an underwater

Circle down into the dumb,

Nearly deep enough to pleat

Our clavicles, dent our

Temples. To avoid the bends

It becomes habitual.

But you, lover, are still

One with unwiped and soft teeth.

With you a kiss is what one properly terms

A meal. Please push up all volume

In these shiny stadia:

You are talking about the seats.

�The Advice�

Miscegenate for world peace!

Veneration should never find

Blood allied with gratitude.

Your loves will be time-zones apart.

Scorned men explain

Neither sleep nor insomnia

But remember the clothes they kept on

To keep their love perfect.

And under

Wonder

Mood

Lies

everywhere.

�The Lasting�

Love is its own aversion therapy.

It is a harsh toke from a big bong

where favorite flavors find their connotations.

And even our sweeter vacations

(Sweetie!)

never lasted this long.

�The After�

Cold coffee does not necessarily

Got bugs in it.

A large town can be a safe place.

But to your friends there

I was just a subject of interest

And we were momentarily the case.

Everyone I did not know wanted to

Talk about it.

Motherfuckers!

Generalizing

Primary human feelings

Is a questionable act.

�The January Drive�

I decided not to hit the Pink Flamingo tonight

& didn�t turn off at the liquor store on Elmwood

which I had forgotten was there

across the street from the doughnut store

wine was at home

and I might relax for tomorrow –

Who should move in this

place who should take

my son�s room where can I buy

a bed and how big

must it be,

how big must it be

for a four leg fit

to finish the bottle

and cap the pour

legs lip just yours.

�The Memorial Day�

A pubic brush

has pulled back

pink bloom

from a pair

of underwear

you borrowed

to share.

�The Funny Valentine�

You yearning honeybun

Sad eyelash honeybun

You make me cry in my heart.

Your hope is laughable

Unphotographable

You see your favorite work of art.

Is my figure less than Greek?

It�s my soul, �s a little weak.

When you open it and seek

Is it smart?

Don�t change your thing for me

Let yourself sing to me

Bye, yearning honeybun, bye.

Each love�s sweet funny day will die.

�The Romantic Song�

Count those kisses

And let tonight

Forget tonight.

Feel your back and when

Rain covered our car

Where are your roaming lips

When they are near the words of love?

Break your breath

Before that note dies

And bring your hands near

Sweet honeypie.

Oh hang back and then

Wave fire at far stars

Where are your flat eyelashes

When they are near the one you love?

Break your breath

Before the note dies

Bring those hands near

Sweet honeypie.

Where are your roaming lips

When you are near the words of love?

And where are your light eyelashes

when you while the one you love?

�The Deaths�

(a gloss on lines by Jack Spicer)

No love deserves

The death it gets.

The same should not be said

For the lover, or the other.

�The Brief Candle�

I�m going to fuck your brains out.

And keep them out!

She is going to fuck her brains out

And keep them out,

And he is going to fuck our brains out

And keep them,

*Period*

(as they say).

These poems originally appeared in sometimes-different form in Tequila Mocking (1992) and Running with Ish (1995).