So this is the last poem.
It's such an honor to be here, and I really
appreciate all of you coming.
I'm so astounded and grateful to be reading
with Dean Young, who is an amazing poet and just as
amazing human being.
This is called "History Lesson".
Back before singing was a new kind of screaming.
Back before the equinox balanced the egg.
Back before the back before, the lemon-ry and Sonia Kharkar's
poem called "Matt Hart's Cat Mao's Personal Poem 11 as sung
by Sonia Kharkar."
Back before the walls crumbled like cookies and Melanie
and I would sleep all day then watch movies
in a heap on the floor.
Back before the leaks, the canaries,
the terrific broken toaster that we've had (it seems)
a hundred years.
Toast your frozen waffle or English muffin on one side,
then turn it over and toast it again.
Back before dancing and Dean Young,
space travel and World War I. Back before I
skipped a lot of interesting information
as a means of getting to the point.
Back before the brain's damage.
Back before my falling out with Sean,
my falling back in with Christian,
my unfathoms, my uncle.
Back before the vividry, with thanks
to Ethan Paquin for friendship and sonic boom, the burning
gloom, brother, the book for unwavering faith.
Back before revelated, a word I made up
meaning, one, intense, spontaneous and illuminated
revelry, two, a state of elated revelation,
three, galvanization, four, revolution with a smile.
Back before in the day when rappers delighted.
Back beyond the back beyond, the eight or nine
or 10 great students.
Back before the death of Dave Otis,
my friend of bright lights, big city heroin face.
Back before the scam in Iraq.
Behind the bar of huffing glue.
Back before the back brain stimulants,
bad brain depressants and all-night mood swings.
Back in black in fashion and style, in a sentimental mood.
Back before back teeth aching in high pressure systems.
Back before the invention of the nuclear wheel.
Back under the knife for a repeat performance.
Back before vaudeville, before noumena,
before night flights and Crockpots.
Before drinking and breaking up at 4:00 AM.
Before story problems.
Before my father rushing headlong into eternity's death
suit, three buttons on the front and a rose in his pocket.
Back before I was a liar, my soul functioning perfectly.
Back before you kissed me on the mouth at Ocean Beach.
Back before the ocean's beach and Richard Diebenkorn's
painting of coffee.
Back before I wrote this poem and also
that song that gets played on the radio in Spain.
Back before the tribe splintered, thus beginning
the never-ending death of us.
Oh, killing.
Oh, softly.
Oh, Roberta.
Oh, Flack.
Back before the Black liberationist
jumpsuits of Gil Scott-Heron.
Back before the first time I told you so.
Before the lights went down at the movie
about brain-eating zombies.
Before you missed your plane and I missed my arrival.
Before the hydraulic soul gave up and gave out and drifted
away humming beauty, beauty, oh, where have you gone?
Before Black Beauty.
Before Over the Rainbow.
Before I had any clue how good Gregory Corso is, who said man
is the victory of the world but also that all of us
are replicas.
Back before I sent the letter to Alex Lemon saying,
care about something deeply and then demonstrate those depths.
It's how we make our experience richer, our world bigger,
our limits disappear.
Back before he wrote back saying he'd quote me.
Back before I started writing the same poem repeatedly
because I keep saying it and saying it
but nobody ever hears me.
Or, they hear me and think I'm an idiot goon
or for some reason I'm kidding.
I'm not kidding.
I love everybody.
I have high, high expectations.
And often I'm so disappointed I want
to stop hurting at the core of the stupid, hot earth.
Back before idiots ruled the stupid, hot earth.
Back before the vast and void and vavoom.
Vavoom.
Back before the sidecar of the funny car, before
nitroglycerin.
Back before the fruit bat, the tree house, the ice cream
truck, the rabbit.
Back before it all began and we were
comfortable and uncomfortable and alive
in our shoes, which carried us forward
to eternity's drool toy to the moment when everything
goes blank or black and white or sticky and sweet.
Back before us a long time ago, there was probably
a huge guffaw in the firmament, a laughter
so violent the sky shook and everything started aright,
but somehow also got off on the wrong foot.
And some dude in a room pushing buttons or drugs
said, I knew how to handle this yesterday, but now what?
[LAUGHTER]