I Have No

Bicycle
Roller blades ice skates
Skis
Satellite Tivo Cable HD
Land line
Internet
TM IM iPod iTunes
Stereo
Radio
Camcorder
TV

Curtains nor drapes
Art on the walls
Framed family photos
Fresh flowers vases
Coffee table knick-knacks souvenirs
Mirror

Refrigerator art
Recycling bin
Garbage bags garbage
Disposal
Dishwasher
Coffeemaker
Microwave
Juicer steamer toaster toaster-oven
George Foreman Grill
Liquor cabinet wine rack liquor
Condiments
Crackers
Hot pads
Pasta
Serving spoons
Cheese knives
Placemats napkins dining room chairs
nor table
Bowls

Air conditioning


Fine sheets soft light
Chest of drawers
Book stack
Bedside lamp
Clock radio
Nightstand
Bible condom-stash gun

Holiday apron
Spare set of keys
Ashtrays
Potted plants yard art
Subscriptions deliveries
Welcome mat

* * *

To the extent that one’s possessions indicate one’s attachments and preoccupations, what is to be made of this dis-inventory?

Clearly the poet has scant attachment to consumer goods or creature comforts or even a domicile.

Perhaps the poet lives in a situation that renders such things moot, for example, a commune, welfare hotel, prison, asylum, nursing home, rehab spa, or monastery.

Every possession is a talisman, every talisman a mirror. Without accoutrement, how do we remember all the small bits of our whole, lovely selves? How do we situate ourselves in the world, space and time?

Without situation, to what can we connect?

Let’s explicate:

The poem is steeped in feminine awareness. Surely the poet is a woman, else the poem would not have been written at all. Or, in the unlikely event, it would have given us a glimpse into other regions of the domicile: the garage or music collection. Would a man have made note of the absence of flour, or the holiday apron?

[Yes. Of course a male writer could mention the flour or apron. But the writer is not the poet who inhabits this piece. The poet of the piece—the character living within the lines—is clearly a feminine presence.]

The poet seems singularly cut off from the world. It is not only the lack of media; every line says it is so. She has no family; a family has bowls. She has no lover; the bedroom is barely utilitarian, a cell. She has no friends—no welcome mat. No media. Not even a magazine crosses her threshold.

Does she live in dead silence?

No art, nor photos nor flower arrangements nor knick-knacks nor potted plants, not even yard art. On what beauty do her eyes rest?

It is precious to point out the lack of a mirror.

Perhaps she has a pet? The poem doesn’t say.

The poem doesn’t say.

Here is an artist’s trick: Draw the white space around objects. You will be amazed by what new things you will see in the same old things: shapes and relationships, varying intensities of light.

White space reveals what is not. In drawing it, you reverse the polarities of real and naught. You make the naught real--and thus render the real, naught?

The imagination laps this stuff up. In the end it leaves you with mystery. This is the holy purpose of art.

But.

It doesn’t do you much good if you’d like to know whether the poet might enjoy a cheese sandwich.

First things first. By making the naught real, the artist does not render the real naught. Of course not. We live in an Einsteinian world: Artists create mystery, they do not destroy matter.

Still, if Einstein were pondering the cheese-sandwich problem, he would be stuck. He could explicate until he was blue in the face. For all its material detail, the white space of this poem gives no answer.

Might the poet enjoy a cheese sandwich? The poem does not say. If you want to know, you must speak first. You must ask, you must say…