Snub Pollard's Autobiography

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Snub Pollard's Autobiography

10.00

By Gus Iversen

Who is Snub Pollard? I found an old tobacco "Movie Star" card in a flea market with Snub Pollard on it. What a face! What a mustache! I started carrying it around in my wallet, behind my ID.

This book is a quilt of frozen moments, some life-defining and others completely unremarkable, woven together in an effort to resurrect the memory of one of Hollywood's most successful silent comics. Someone who, to me, epitomizes the idea that even famous lives are wiped from the collective memory twenty or thirty seconds later than an obscure one.

Here is (by far) the most coherent and comprehendible part of the book:

i was born at the edge of a busted bubble
in the rubble of the great kulin nation
below all the stage of western trouble
i rose in a car made of magnets

the men busied themselves with the paper
which no longer mentioned instant fortune
the banks wept
their tears fell on plows which then rusted

squizzy taylor was the new man with a vision
and the dockies were lining his track
now it all feels like someone else’s life
don’t know if i’m glad that i never went back

mine is aline of dreamers and schemers
to dream you must get lots of sleep
mother and father played the scratchers
and i pretended to be a drunk russian
putting on my coat and hopping on a boat
in the lot of fun telling lies for a living

my california high times you may not recall
but i was top of the pops in the pictures
if your ancestors were alive they’d know
but time was not kind and my act fell behind
now i’m catching gene kelly’s umbrella

the beauty that devours explicitely
the denominator more basic than graves
the shape of empirical truth in geometry
the occasional quote from god
no matter what galileo has to say about it
i’m fluttering my eyebrows
in the middle of the fireworks universe

at seventy years old
you could find me hunched over
in a make believe dive bar
sewing the almighty zeotrope of hilarity
in the flicker of a foreign language
for a pair of legs in fishnet stockings
who cues the credits
for a film that will dissolve
for a brain without a memory

i’m telling you now
i was wildly infused with music
these old eyelids were like fishing rods
in a match with the loch ness monster
fluttering from the ankles
that was me
fluttering hilariously
in and out of love
and all the other human scales
fluttering with a rarified genius
inevitably out of your minds

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Each copy is hand-stamped with the ILOANBooks sigil and numbered. Print cycles are in volumes of 50 and repeated as needed.