The History of My World Tonight

Daniel Nester

BlazeVOX [books]
Buffalo, New York

Copyright 2005 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed by CafePress.com in the United States of America ISBN : 0-9759228-2-6 Library of Congress Control Number : forthcoming

Book design by Geoffrey Gatza Cover art Man on Subway by Matt Madden

First Edition

Coy Apology
I shouldnt settle the score with anyone. I expected to be braver than this. Having looked back on my feet today mewing my fine fettle specimens. Im as keen and quick as my first cousin the waving Miss Cotton, another sunny day in Tucson. As Plato says, Im undisturbed, even by dreams. You must know Ive whirred by tollbooths Impersonating policemen in a rush. But this is not what Im sorry for right now.

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Rodinesque
Make sounds if you must But please dont insult me I mean when you say its Presented you mean You put it out there you Just put it out there And as for me Im underlooked Im nothing special Im just an everyman in clay With an anatomically Correct dick

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I Know a Muse
I know a Muse, and I have expectations of her, and I really have to apologize right here For telling you about her as a warm-upas if this were, You know, some staged invocation or Antigone Revival. But the reason Why I Am Writing This Poem Is to explain my worry about being misunderstood. I have an innate fear of being corny, phony, as do all Members of my guild; to be artistic, wise, to look at The clouds and say more artistic and wise things; Oh, Death and God, they figure into my retail world and if You think it doesnt with yours, it goes without saying that Youre full of it. But I shouldnt have said that. I should have started off with a Bang. All good poems These days start with a Bang. Bang. Example Years ago, a friend of mine played Creon and, at rehearsal, He was still tripping on acid from the night before. He stood there in the Enviromental Theater Workshop Like some warm forest animal, feeling the cosmic energy of The director, a man with a permanent and red turtleneck, Who held a nine-volt battery in his hand for inspiration. And he told my friend his character wanted to fuck Antigone And I provided shelter for this poor hallucinating man While Antigone, another friend of mine, teased her hair In the bathroom. It was, as they say, a family drama, en famille, And Who Was I to Intercede? I look back then to those days Of narrow bathrooms and ever-ringing inner-city phones As of course a preamble to another day When I would actually run out of breath When I would point at things and understand.
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Vince Lombardi
To tell the story straight is a sin. To tell any story straight is a sin. Theres only so much fun with human figures, only so much time to say what you want to say. But never tell the story straight. Or arrange different colors, make objects mere decoration. What despair it takes to make music; what despair it is to add importance to words as you talk. You will look like a goldfish when it pops its eyes out from the bowl. The fish is without sin. We are not. And dont get me started about crucifixion, or even the concept of crucifixion. I want to review all passions, however briefly, and go over my notes each morning. Listen to me: To describe mothers and trees in reference to other mothers and treeswell, thats pretty rotten. And when we get breasts flashed at us that are not our breasts, or watch movies only to look for a mirror-image of ourselvesthat is terrific and understandable, respectively. So if I were you, Id get all your ducks in a row. I know, I knowjust one more chance to kill old enemies is too tempting. But the story, yes, the story, has better things to do. I used to say song instead of story in my speeches on this, but people said it was a bit confusing.

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Two Exaggerated Self-Portraits

after Ulrich Berkes, 1980

1. Im another poet I share a car (a Honda), television set, washing machine I like creamed and sugared cups of coffee I know how to wash and detail a car with a single white rag Ive had 5 bicycles in my life I meet friends at cheap bars I write with good pens that I steal from corporations I picked up my second girlfriend, a Danish au pair, hitchhiking in New Jersey I think Ive loved more than I have been loved, but many of us feel that way I listen to music by Schubert, Queen, Prince, Joni Mitchell, and Ornette Coleman I stopped a parolee from killing someone in a poetry class once I keep all my old Mad and Cracked magazines in a basement box I wanted to be a reporter, and before that a military officer I walk only to work and to visit friends Im afraid of driving over a child I live in a house with loud neighbors I wish these neighbors would die, because I cant write poems at home with their loud stereo and arguments I play guitar, an electric with a lot of distortion, with headphones on I cry uncontrollably sometimes because I cant reconcile my childhood I was born of gentle parents, at least they were at first I write at a quiet desk at a nice co-operative I was born on leap year, February 29, 1968, and have had only 8 real birthdays I only keep a journal when I cry uncontrollably I am 61 and weigh 200 lbs I read Williams, Olds, Juvenal, Stevens, Baraka, Whitman, Ruth Stone, OHara, Rilke, Lester Bangs I still buy generic brands of cereal and canned vegetables
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I shave my face with my wifes pink razors I have tried to write a memoir about rock music to make money I go to movies, record stores, and watch TV all the time I dont remember my dreams I think Ive read too many novels already in my life I am dramatic and have a persecution complex I cook with chicken and fish, use limes and basil and garlic, black pepper I have a Catholics affinity for candles I play video games, mostly ones with hand-to-hand combat I believe what Freddie Mercury said once to a drag queenOnly do half of what you want onstage I was once sent to classes for slow children because I wrote my name backwards, tracing it through a piece of paper I am more shy than most people think I called my pharmacist once to tell him how stupid he is I am both attracted to crudity and aspire to be an intellectual Monday, January 8, 2001

2. I am not a poet today I read the newspaper, vacuum, clean up cat shit, masturbate, talk to myself, take my medicine too late in the day I live in a house that my wife bought before we were married I live a lie, I tell myself out loud, walking up Broadway I smoke pot now only when I visit my best friend to play the newest video games I cant swim I am afraid I wish I expected less from my friends I play air guitar while driving I like eating bread and drinking Coke I may never have a book of poems published I think I have sabotaged my life I steal words whenever I can
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I envy everyone I have a scar on my Achilles heel when a lawnmower blade sliced my tendon when I was 19 I walk around like Im lost I would like to see New Wave Hookers again I sometimes think most people who portray the poor in poetry, music, photography, and movies are condescending because they think being poor is somehow more noble I could write ten poems in a day sometimes, I think I have many secrets I come from two families of factory workers and truck drivers I bullshit a lot I shouldnt say half of what I say I think there should be more irony and culture in poetry I cant tell a story straight, thats why I write poems I am mostly insecure about my life I wish I would get into a fistfight sometimes I was bored this morning, speaking with other poets I wish I had more vinyl records, especially expensive jazz ones from the Village I wish I wore Old Spice cologne and smoked I am not included in the Poets & Writers authors directory I keep going until I stop I drive points into the ground I walk up Third Avenue, still as hungry and wide-mouthed as six years ago I smooth down womens shoulders as I pass them in hallways I read Mayakovsky once and cried I wish you would love me after reading this poem, but understand if you dont Friday, January 12, 2001

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Prodigies
He would leave. We could tell. We could hear her fists thud on his chest, her sobs in deep asthmatic inhales, slow, then fast, in time with music blared from our rooms. Sneaking closer, I could hear the trebly crinkle of trash bags loaded with clothes for the motel. I knelt on my dresser, knocking against the window, a moth wild to fly out in the rain.

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Winterreise
It was said to me like my father or mother said, Sung like my grandmom or grandpop grumbled, Tweeted like whichever variety of birds tweet, Steamed off grass before copulation, Transpired against my legs, Rumpled pantleg on pantleg, Whatever it was it waited, it dropped, it turned, it trampled, And I waited parentless beneath the sightline, Heard before it happens, smell and it did not seek it, As aunts apologize in another room And uncles skullrub until, redfaced, return, Start into that pleasure, start into the subject stopped, Start walling up the stripe in the room and Battens down the side room slumber.

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Descant of a Grumpy Morning

No need for miniatures today. No time for tenders or To marvel the soft-shoe. Theres been enough snow today, Enough kerosene smell in late spring, Enough opera of clean decisions. The first action out of town Is a repeat of revelation, And theres no need to focus On enchantment. People will die pressing their hands Together, dip them deep into pots. No need to give a scratch About the out-of-place, superscript Remarks, the skeletons at the feast.

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Rodinesque Triptych Plus

I. December in the Delaware Valley and the boy daydreams of joyrides, limp crab apples chucked from car windows. His legs are trembling! II. He sleeps in a township beyond commonplace, beyond get-outta-here. The boy can bend his elbows into his arms. III. And then theres this one part when wet thuds on late-model hoods dent youthful ligaments. The boys chased down by a wrinkled drunk, whiskey breathclouds over his face. IIIa. I forgot to tell you the following the dead ringer aspect of the boy and drunk, their curvatures, the snow, his arms bent in the snow.

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Supposing They Had Your Back

My dad lets bulls loose out of his legs. Hes memorized the bulls song. Theyre ugly, he whispers, and rears back in retreat from a wall and freezes there. And I smile, never the fearless man at the foot of a mountain, and let go of the steering wheel, while my dad and the bull slide down a mudslide. My father punches its hairy sides. Its the same way he punches my hairy arms. Go away, he says. And make yourself rough. Neither see my legs as they stretch away from the bull as it charges away from my dad as it roughs up the bull again. These are roundhouse punches were talking about. My ungraceful head looks around again, its short hairs wet, exposed to sounds outside.

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Saint Blaise
I am filled with the blandness of the Lord. He who has covered me with soft animal tissue and buttoned it down with blackberry sprigs now talks to me constantly in my cave. God is a Chatty Cathy! Here, away in my cave, I can live out my quiet bland dreams, a happy median of excellent acts and bland isolation. I fast from the voluptuous food of spring. Something I didnt know until just recently is that Mary, newly ascended into heaven, flashed Jesus with herHow do I say this blandly?Holy Papillae, the fountains of her sons first food. It is just this brand of showiness I avoid! I curl up with bland books and blanket skins and, like clockwork, release fishbones from dullard boys throats. As pigs and loaves of barley bread are wheeled in from weary villagers, I hold fast to my blandness like a freshly molten breastplate. I am holy, I am bland, I am persistent and bland, I am not scared of being beheaded. I am filled with the blandness of the Lord.

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Southern State Parkway Hosanna

Make me an offer. Im blue youre red. We must have one smart patron attending us, A great work in summer sadness. Heat in two rooms slides between doors. And does the sun feast on your forehead while we sleep? Am I supposed to worry about a second darkness?

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Elegy Redux as Interlude

And I quote directly from an old poem of mine, Elegy to the Sublime Ill begin with an ending, concentrating so hard on whatever music is played or handed down to me that Ill end up on the couch, kissing my arms. Thats it. Thats the end. You can turn the page now.

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The Last Allegory Disguised as Discovery of Essence

Nighttime, waiting for tokens to land in my hand. This wait Im not used to. This robot behind the curtain, tossing the cloth behind him? It knows I asked for it. Begged for it, it likes to remind me. Used cutesy voices. Oh, all suavity, all humor is gone. Today, all I can do is wait for the train to Brooklyn, fire up the phonograph, play scratchy one-hit wonders, some other undeserved pleasure. But for now, for both of us, the wait. The separate need for magic.

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