Daniel Nester

To tell the story straight is a sin. To tell any story straight is a sin. There’s 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 don’t get me started about 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 trees—well, that’s 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 ourselves—that is terrific and understandable, respectively. So get all your ducks in a row. Kill old enemies if you have to. 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.

If I Told You Once

Soaked in the dictionary sketchbook
there were no skinny words at all—
one job left alone to flip
though gelled-up quiet
through rubbed-smooth cave walls—
today’s an in-between rolled-up chin-
scratch of a day churches churches
everywhere outside the clubhouse—
so much coffee and pens to pilfer
so many skinny words to praise
and each workman soaks up
in the reference of their late-morning chats
enough to make it slapstick and dry
even enough to laugh at
content and broke yen up a strain
yeah a strain to make it
happen again happen again
 

Asked yet another time in my hour of escaping taint, subdued and leaning in God-knows-whose loose-collared shirt, the pick and treasure, the whatnot, my astonishment at all this;

And myself, an unfriended former Virginian, this unnatural slowdance with myself—not of revolt, nor of hungry arms, not even my usual sadness—it’s the woman sex that stirs me, stirs me to the deeps. Such darling instrumentals, so darling a red rose.

It’s those deeps, the deeps that keep me humming.
 

Poems © Daniel Nester 2004-2005. All rights reserved.