Matthew Olzmann
Letter to Larry Levis
As if by some unholy, digital sorcery, last week,
when I typed your last name into the internet,
my computer came back with,
"Did you mean to type Levi's®"? And I said,
"No, I meant Larry Levis." And my computer said,
"Did you mean to type Larry Levi's®"? And I said,
"Oh Lord, grant me the strength to bring no hammer
down through Thy machine." And my computer said,
"All Levi's Brand Apparel, on sale at select locations!"
And I said, "I give up." This must be
your more famous ancestor
who made clothing from bolts of the cloth
we now call "denim." In the early days, it was overalls
and popular among cowboys, miners and farmers.
Later, it was jeans and jackets and prevalent among
all who were alive. These new garments were praised
for their "durability," meaning: they could last.
What the hell lasts anymore? Some of your poems, I hope,
but definitely not the cities or rivers or roads we pave
from one end of the imagination to the other.
And not our names. Yours, for example, even now,
expunged and replaced as I type it. The clothing sold to me
by Larry Levi's eventually wears thin, won't endure.
These jeans, purchased forever ago, have holes.
One torn into the left knee. One in the right pocket
where I keep spare change. Everything falls through.
I walk away from the desk. In your name, I leave
this trail of nickels.
The Dead Letter Office
Envelopes, mystery packages, boxes without postage
and sealed with three different kinds of tape: The Wheel
of the Mail continues to roll.
No matter what you've heard, here's how it works.
No expense is spared.
Satellite surveillance, bloodhounds, witch doctors:
we'll use anything to find
the ones who must be found.
All must be delivered.
Even if they say it can't be delivered
because you—genius, you—wrote a letter
to “Medusa of Ancient Greece,”
to [name illegible] at 366 [street illegible],
or Mary Mother of God;
the address was incorrect, nonexistent, or located in space.
It matters not. We'll find
the ones who must be found,
and give them the things they must be given.
Unless the things they must be given
can't be delivered, in which case they'll be returned.
Unless they can't be returned, in which case they'll be destroyed.
Unless they can't be destroyed (i.e. they contain objects of value),
in which case they'll be sold at auction.
Unless the objects of value include weapons,
narcotics, or pornography, in which case
they will be neither sold nor destroyed.
Matthew Olzmann’s first book of poems, Mezzanines, was selected for the 2011 Kundiman Prize and was published by Alice James Books. His second book, Contradictions in the Design, is forthcoming from Alice James in November, 2016. He is the 2015-16 Kenan Visiting Writer at the university of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.
Return to January 2016 Edition
As if by some unholy, digital sorcery, last week,
when I typed your last name into the internet,
my computer came back with,
"Did you mean to type Levi's®"? And I said,
"No, I meant Larry Levis." And my computer said,
"Did you mean to type Larry Levi's®"? And I said,
"Oh Lord, grant me the strength to bring no hammer
down through Thy machine." And my computer said,
"All Levi's Brand Apparel, on sale at select locations!"
And I said, "I give up." This must be
your more famous ancestor
who made clothing from bolts of the cloth
we now call "denim." In the early days, it was overalls
and popular among cowboys, miners and farmers.
Later, it was jeans and jackets and prevalent among
all who were alive. These new garments were praised
for their "durability," meaning: they could last.
What the hell lasts anymore? Some of your poems, I hope,
but definitely not the cities or rivers or roads we pave
from one end of the imagination to the other.
And not our names. Yours, for example, even now,
expunged and replaced as I type it. The clothing sold to me
by Larry Levi's eventually wears thin, won't endure.
These jeans, purchased forever ago, have holes.
One torn into the left knee. One in the right pocket
where I keep spare change. Everything falls through.
I walk away from the desk. In your name, I leave
this trail of nickels.
The Dead Letter Office
Envelopes, mystery packages, boxes without postage
and sealed with three different kinds of tape: The Wheel
of the Mail continues to roll.
No matter what you've heard, here's how it works.
No expense is spared.
Satellite surveillance, bloodhounds, witch doctors:
we'll use anything to find
the ones who must be found.
All must be delivered.
Even if they say it can't be delivered
because you—genius, you—wrote a letter
to “Medusa of Ancient Greece,”
to [name illegible] at 366 [street illegible],
or Mary Mother of God;
the address was incorrect, nonexistent, or located in space.
It matters not. We'll find
the ones who must be found,
and give them the things they must be given.
Unless the things they must be given
can't be delivered, in which case they'll be returned.
Unless they can't be returned, in which case they'll be destroyed.
Unless they can't be destroyed (i.e. they contain objects of value),
in which case they'll be sold at auction.
Unless the objects of value include weapons,
narcotics, or pornography, in which case
they will be neither sold nor destroyed.
Matthew Olzmann’s first book of poems, Mezzanines, was selected for the 2011 Kundiman Prize and was published by Alice James Books. His second book, Contradictions in the Design, is forthcoming from Alice James in November, 2016. He is the 2015-16 Kenan Visiting Writer at the university of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.
Return to January 2016 Edition