Daniel Benjamin — LONG POSTSCRIPT IN THREE PARTS

Daniel Benjamin

LONG POSTSCRIPT IN THREE PARTS

 

1.

 

This writing has no

desire for prophecy, truth

or even to track the

moving oscillating space

heater column or

the rolling ball ink

spilling on my fingers

or the steam from

the egg sandwich,

the bath water,

my breath

in the under-heated

apartment; the

curl of my toes,

stickiness

on the desk under

my cookbooks, my

water glass fingertips,

my extrusions. Now

my finger is covered

in ink so

I’ll print it here

 

 

not so good

 

 

 

so I lower my fingers

down the pen, my

expectations and

soon the heat under the

beans

 

This is a poem about

Poetry

 

Poetry means nothing to

me today

and even

when it meant

everything, only

for a displacement.

I let the water

boil. Which will

last longer, this pen’s

fleeing ink

or the cooking

water

The bay leaves

“that sometime did

me seek”

 

To respond

to not writing I’ll

write a lot

unseriously, not picking

a careful experiment

narrating the unpicking.

My adjusted fingers

solve the ink problem

and the house smells

of thyme, I am

wasting paper

in my spillage, in

the overflowing of

what can’t—

Jeremih says I like

to play crazy sometime—

I am not just

drinking and writing

fast

on a rolling ball

I care more about

basketball and

the Knicks are

bumming me out too

I like my easy life

and the privilege I have

not to work hard

and to license it

I’m spilling

unseriously

dream of painting

cold in

extremities

 

Dear Anooj and Emily

thank you

for your prompt reply

sorry I cannot do the same

Dear Australian poets

apologies

for my sloppy

editing

I am kinda getting

paid for the anthology

I am not getting

paid by the union

Dear Jane I don’t know

what you want from

me or what I want

from you and if we

can give it, now

that time has passed

the bench colonized

by blandness

Dear Claire how did

I luck out on having

you in my

century and city, I’m

expecting to get

in trouble for it

Dear Maddie Claire says

you are a witch and

she is right and

its too cold to go

outside and too

early for me to feed you

again

I washed my hands

lazily

I got ink on them

again

I checked my phone

and had a text

from Adam

Dear Adam I always always

think of you as Virgil

Dear Seulghee please

prosper because I don’t

want to live in a world

where you don’t

Don’t tell em says

Jeremih

I get some ink on

a spoon, turn the

page on my

messages

and really I am

seducing myself as I

said to JR,

Dear JR dearest JR

it feels so wrong

for you to

be in another

city, should

we both move

back to Chicago?

I don’t know if

I still believe

that nowhere will be

better than

Berkeley or

in art

I always believe in you

JR more than I could

say, I mean like in

a religious kind of way

Dear Shira writing laws

Dear Rebecca passing

verdicts for the week

Dear Anna the true

artist

Why is Maddie so agitated

Why am I,

sitting on a chair

in the middle of

the room

Dear Dylan if we

lived in the same

city would it always

be vacation?

I don’t know

what I could bear

or why I’m getting

this shit down

I hate it

I hate poetry about poetry about poetry

and feel a horrible

jealousy

to see myself through

these

nauseous eyes

I’m running

through the

pages faster today

at

least

running in place

an ink stain

a body language

 

 

2.

 

It’s 6:48pm in my

numerous life,

my life numinous,

and I have

Anna’s gorgeous

vinyl notebook

before me,

gold

like Marianne’s

book Commitment

but sticky

too and grabs onto

Steve’s Cyborg

Legs which

Brandon gave me

in a sticky bar in

Berkeley

A little gross but

with unexplainable

forces

of attraction

 

Anna sent me this

book in a box

for my birthday

and I’ve kept it out

the paper is thick

I’m trying to say

I’m not lonely

in this

numerous

life, thank you

George

Dylan said

after reading

one of my poems

that there was

such a contrast,

the abstract

and the thick

I want to write

long enough

to get from one

vinyl side

to the other

But I think

that means more

than minutes

Nate says

that serial poets

have a hard time

with endings,

Jack says I am

thinking that

a poem could

last forever,

Frank says this

poem is long

because our friendship

has been long,

and would be

long as I hope

our friendship lasts

if I could write

poems that long,

well, Frank

that poem’s

not so long.

Jocelyn juxtaposes

the finitude

of the day

and of the

life

and the poems

die softly,

bearable.

Light falls

later and later

here,

and a pile of

lighters slowly

diffuses around

this small apartment

Now what

falls from

the trees

isn’t leaves,

some little

pollen clump that

sticks, a little

light drifts

in the sewn

seam, Anna

cut it. Ismail

is coming over

later, the stitch

in my evening,

the purveyor of

limit

In Bob’s book

he repeats a story

from Don

of being in a

taxi with Frank

reading “Hôtel Transylvanie”

and Frank

crying at his own

poem

I can’t love

anyone who

doesn’t cry

from art but

that’s everyone

Now the light is

of the light

fallen but air

gains a little weight

between my open

doors, heavy

and as pirated

Do you also

forget how

Frank writes so

often

of suicide, well,

the lovers of Frank

love life

too much

Now just one

bird chirps, my

mouth fills with

water, now

I’m breathing,

now I close my

eyes to

listen

 

Shall we win

at love

or shall we

lose, and who

shall all of

us be

Shall the Warriors

win 73 games

I’m writing

in my

loser’s faith,

for me alone

for living

not stopping

to count

each seam’s

pages, here’s another

one. I shiver

and suspend

the breeze.

At the reading

Jane got into

the rhythm

of her rhythms

then said that

made her

feel bad,

well, it made

us feel good

But I won’t

make you

love your

listeners more

than obeying

the dictates of

discomfort, the dead

speak louder to

you. Are you

still happy

on vacation,

thanks for telling

me Write a

long poem in

that moment

of my

not-yet-apartment-

depressed

I don’t want

vacation to end,

imagine prosperity

as its endlessness,

I hate suffering and

only more

so in me

and my friends

For now we’ve

got money

to spare,

and prepare

to find poetry

in the talking

Joshua trees

and laps of

each other

Tonight I

just want every

name to

return my

loving spelling,

I know they do

already, already

have. Sweet,

sweet and

delightful names,

houses on the

page for your

hearts and

sweats.

As for my

name,

I’ll put on

a shirt, check

for wine lips,

think

about dinner

now that it

is dark

A spider

resembles first

a mouse, then

dust, then

leggedly emerges

the other end

of the table

I miss JR

and text him

something stupid

But a letter

holds sentiment

like a charged

stone, the smell

of a t shirt,

chalk traces.

 

 

3.

 

Tho I’m no

Christian

(misspell

the name twice,

the second I

gets me

confused)

I belong

to the faith

in rebirth,

our own

coming back

to life

When Ismail came

over I fed

him a

salad and

leftovers, I

filled his cup

and lungs. Katy posted

a picture

of Judas’s

sad gaze

Now I’m eating

kumquats with

coffee, Ismail says

he is hungover

again. I opened

O’Hara’s

Collected and

we read

“Hôtel Transylvanie”

in silence at

my intoxicated

behest—

“I am lyrical

to a fault”—

and Ismail

tears up,

says

it’s the cat hair.

He is surely right

but I am

also right,

and light flickers

onto unplugged

Christmas lines,

through cobwebs

tying them,

past roaches

and gravel,

some springy

purple buds on a

green branch,

flourishing in

my ignorance,

my privileged state,

my day

without a

hangover

The body

isn’t there,

not here

in the couch

depression,

the garden

filled with

imaginary smoke,

dirty chairs

What I’ve accrued

are not debts,

clumped

up dead skin

stuck

to the face

or shoe,

the skin that

pertains

Where will you

find me,

since I will

be gone,

not there

where I am

laid

I hear a cry,

does it

pertain to me

Do I then

have to believe

in losing,

running down

the ink

and the pages

No.

I’ll not be a late

monastic,

consolation prize,

and I want the

same for you,

for all of you

if you

don’t faze your

extraordinary

fecundity,

gifts of faith,

generous

paranoia

He is risen indeed,

say it

with me

or after

and recognize

our miracle

of resurrection

that couldn’t

happen

another time

of year

but now our

salty tears

have purpose,

velvety fava

leaves

and mud

on pink radishes

Jane sends

me a picture

of Opal

shrouded in

bunnies

Eliot adds me

to a grouptext

of witty

strangers

These rectangles

bring so much

life

I’m going

to cook

for Seulghee

and Claire,

a stew of

beets and

carrots,

roast potatoes,

I can’t wait

for Tuesday,

a day and a

day after

This is the

third pen

of the poem

this is the fourth

of five

bunches of paper,

this is the

sound of

daytime insects,

few birds,

Maddie back inside

grooming,

a plane or

a drone,

her small

crying talk,

some other outer

buzz, this

is a distant

voice. The poem

goes on

too long

but I have

a distance

to go before

the other vinyl

side, this is

a squirrel barking

I want to live

happily more

than write well,

what does that

make me

Maybe less

than half a

poet, thank you

Dorothy

I look through

one more

stitching window

nose to paper

and see the

big stones in

the garden, the

vinyl flapping,

and smell it

And a neighbor

comes or goes

loudly

and

I’m rushing

now for some

reason

I have to clean,

have clothes

to hang,

Anna’s prints to

frame, dishes

to wash, papers

to grade, Alexandra’s

beautiful accordion

poem between

two stones

and wrapped in

cardboard

with my name

on it

I have names

to re-learn and

to forget.