Quincy R. Lehr
The Year Zero
So try to catch a falling star,
Crush it into dust and stuff it down a jar
And throw it far away
-- Mission of Burma, "Fame and Fortune"
I
Can we zero out the clock? Guitars
and drum and bass suggest the notion's dicey.
Despite the run-down surfaces of bars
the beams below are new. The drinks are pricey.
But isn't there a look upon the faces
of trust-fund kids belying accusations
of simulacrum, summoning the traces
of lines erased some time ago? The notions
cross bounds of class and race and generations.
The kids are kids.
We recognise the motions.
The DNA's unique, although it twists
the same old double helix, and the beat
seems to drive the blood inside our wrists
through bluish veins. The song will soon repeat
its chorus, though we can't hear every word.
And this is now, and everyone is young
and jumping up and down. It seems absurd
if you can't see it.
Everything is new?
'We've see it all before'? Oh, have we really,
or something like it - -Cabaret Voltaire,
Summer of Love? Tonight, the air is chilly,
but still, the dolled-up women's arms are bare,
trying to capture in a look the feel
of being where they are, but not quite here--
a place imagined, dropped into the real,
and trying to find a graft on fallow ground,
mutating with age and dressed in better gear.
Slogans fade. The rebels come around.
II
She loved to talk about her 'art'. I listened,
mouthed "Tristan Tzara", and she answered, 'Who?'
The night was hot, her unclad pale arms glistened.
Her eyes were painted. I said, 'Siouxsie Sioux.'
She stared at me a moment, turned away,
and chatted with her band about their label,
recording contracts, sessions in L.A.,
the audience (I gather we were fine).
The upward path is narrow and unstable.
Chaotic breaks become a chorus line.
I envied her that constant present tense,
that poise of ignorance, the sheer invention
of utter lack of chops, her easy sense
of who she was, the arrogant pretension
that what you do is new. And who was I
to stare her down with history, the hard
fact of antecedence, and a dry
account of revolutions that imploded,
the way the scions of the avant-garde
wake up one day, established and outmoded
or just washed up?
Fuck that! Get up on stage
until the money's gone, or till the spark
burns to an ember at an older age.
The backlit lights are bright. The tone is dark.
Rock on, young lady! (What the hell's her name?)
Stay right here, downstairs in a downtown bar.
Don't let them tell you that you're all the same.
Don't let me tell you who I think you are.
III
We've 'seen it all before', the drunk flirtation
on the sidewalk, late nights on the streets,
the blank slate of a lack of reputation,
the flat with dirty dishes, dirty sheets,
and little space for second amplifiers
in the closet packed with piles of books,
a carpet of outdated concert fliers,
a girl more beautiful than you believe
-- bewitching smile and slim exotic looks--
and noble notions -- though perhaps naive.
But everything we take as read is new
for someone else still unendowed with loss,
the pessimism of the longer view,
the nature of the lines they have to cross.
Some day, they switch to khakis, though chagrined,
perhaps turned rueful at their indiscretions,
now smug and overpaid and double-chinned.
Or maybe they'll look back and smile that way
one does at some now-faded recollections
of what one used to be back in the day.
So try to catch a falling star,
Crush it into dust and stuff it down a jar
And throw it far away
-- Mission of Burma, "Fame and Fortune"
I
Can we zero out the clock? Guitars
and drum and bass suggest the notion's dicey.
Despite the run-down surfaces of bars
the beams below are new. The drinks are pricey.
But isn't there a look upon the faces
of trust-fund kids belying accusations
of simulacrum, summoning the traces
of lines erased some time ago? The notions
cross bounds of class and race and generations.
The kids are kids.
We recognise the motions.
The DNA's unique, although it twists
the same old double helix, and the beat
seems to drive the blood inside our wrists
through bluish veins. The song will soon repeat
its chorus, though we can't hear every word.
And this is now, and everyone is young
and jumping up and down. It seems absurd
if you can't see it.
Everything is new?
'We've see it all before'? Oh, have we really,
or something like it - -Cabaret Voltaire,
Summer of Love? Tonight, the air is chilly,
but still, the dolled-up women's arms are bare,
trying to capture in a look the feel
of being where they are, but not quite here--
a place imagined, dropped into the real,
and trying to find a graft on fallow ground,
mutating with age and dressed in better gear.
Slogans fade. The rebels come around.
II
She loved to talk about her 'art'. I listened,
mouthed "Tristan Tzara", and she answered, 'Who?'
The night was hot, her unclad pale arms glistened.
Her eyes were painted. I said, 'Siouxsie Sioux.'
She stared at me a moment, turned away,
and chatted with her band about their label,
recording contracts, sessions in L.A.,
the audience (I gather we were fine).
The upward path is narrow and unstable.
Chaotic breaks become a chorus line.
I envied her that constant present tense,
that poise of ignorance, the sheer invention
of utter lack of chops, her easy sense
of who she was, the arrogant pretension
that what you do is new. And who was I
to stare her down with history, the hard
fact of antecedence, and a dry
account of revolutions that imploded,
the way the scions of the avant-garde
wake up one day, established and outmoded
or just washed up?
Fuck that! Get up on stage
until the money's gone, or till the spark
burns to an ember at an older age.
The backlit lights are bright. The tone is dark.
Rock on, young lady! (What the hell's her name?)
Stay right here, downstairs in a downtown bar.
Don't let them tell you that you're all the same.
Don't let me tell you who I think you are.
III
We've 'seen it all before', the drunk flirtation
on the sidewalk, late nights on the streets,
the blank slate of a lack of reputation,
the flat with dirty dishes, dirty sheets,
and little space for second amplifiers
in the closet packed with piles of books,
a carpet of outdated concert fliers,
a girl more beautiful than you believe
-- bewitching smile and slim exotic looks--
and noble notions -- though perhaps naive.
But everything we take as read is new
for someone else still unendowed with loss,
the pessimism of the longer view,
the nature of the lines they have to cross.
Some day, they switch to khakis, though chagrined,
perhaps turned rueful at their indiscretions,
now smug and overpaid and double-chinned.
Or maybe they'll look back and smile that way
one does at some now-faded recollections
of what one used to be back in the day.
Quincy Lehr was raised in Norman, Oklahoma and presently lives in Brooklyn, having returned to the U.S.
after two years in Ireland. His work has appeared in venues in the United States, Britain, Ireland, and
Australia, including Cadenza, The Chimaera, Crannog, Iambs & Trochees, The Dark Horse, The Raintown Review,
The Shit Creek Review, and WOW! Magazine. His first book of poetry, "Across the Grid of Streets", was
published by Seven Towers in April 2008. With R. Nemo Hill, he co-edits the Modern Metrics chapbook series,
and used to host an associated reading. He is the Associate Editor of the Raintown Review.
after two years in Ireland. His work has appeared in venues in the United States, Britain, Ireland, and
Australia, including Cadenza, The Chimaera, Crannog, Iambs & Trochees, The Dark Horse, The Raintown Review,
The Shit Creek Review, and WOW! Magazine. His first book of poetry, "Across the Grid of Streets", was
published by Seven Towers in April 2008. With R. Nemo Hill, he co-edits the Modern Metrics chapbook series,
and used to host an associated reading. He is the Associate Editor of the Raintown Review.