for Diane Wakoski
No ideas but in things,
said Doc Williams.
Christ! I must have
an awful lot of ideas.
God knows I have
an awful lot of things.
I never have enjoyed
the luxury of living
with nothing, even
next-to-nothing.
I never learned
the lesson of seeing
“isolate in the beauty
of separateness”
each thing by itself.
Unto itself, itself itself.
Jay Gatsby, opening the bureau
to display all his shirts …
I was planted in a crib
of things—ducks, dolls,
rattlers of the non-poisonous
variety. Growing up, I collected:
Dixie Cup lids, baseball cards,
matchbox cars. Live things, too:
My gerbils begat unto the umpteenth
generation. College years, things
worsened. I hated library books,
still do. Worth reading,
worth owning, my motto. Bookshelves
groaned. Paper napkins? Loathe them.
Linen closets groaned. Thoreau
would groan had he seen the van
big as the Mayflower (and so named)
lumbering toward Westchester
with all my unworldly possessions.
One hundred ninety cartons
of books alone. No, not alone,
together.
The Collier Brothers, leaving
a houseful of newspapers …
At night I prowl the rooms
of my house, glass in hand,
to survey my things. “I’ll weed
the library,” I say. “Throw away
two hundred record albums”—
how low-fidelity most sound.
And just yesterday
they were the very thing.
Christ! I need things to keep
all my things in. And this year,
things got worse. I inherited
(of all things) Great Aunt Eva’s
amber collection. Every surface
gleams—glass amber grapes,
amber apples, amber ashtrays
shaped like gentleman’s top hats.
I’ve had to hire a housekeeper
just to dust the damned things.
McCullers said, “First learn
to love a tree, a rock, a cloud …”
I do, I do, I do. I love shoe
trees, rock records, Rolls-Royce
Silver Clouds. Lord, help me
abandon these screens I stand
behind. Help to come to believe,
No things but in ideas.