I am in the basement with Dr. Watson building a Frankenstein. We were sent instruction via the mail and met here on this day to begin the great project of our lives. Neither of us knows how it will come out, or what will be done with the endless piles of corpses that arrived soon after. Perhaps we are to build and army, but no the instructions said clearly one Frankenstein. It is days like this where I like to get out of the house stretch my legs and a take a nice walk among the evening sounds. But Watson will have nothing of it. He insists that we investigate each possible avenue, each possible computation. I am tired. I want to lie down and take a nap among the sycamore trees that seem to be sprouting up everywhere now. Here it is. I will lie down among the green grasses and rest my eyes. I will not think of Frankensteins. I will not think of this.
It’s times like this when the wild-life, the unnameable wildlife, creeps down into the valley and waits in the weeds like some unexpected flower. An eye twitching in the tall grass. Everything on fire. The gates to the city barred shut, only they forget to let us all in. in the center of the city the smoke rises from the lone chimney, the last bit of this place left standing. Cats creep high backed and cackled, flashing green eyes through the smoke, through the fog, we don’t which is which. There is a sound of no sound in your ears. perhaps something in you is trying to escape, or perhaps not, you lack the ability to take measure. Instead you are measured out inch by inch one bleating point after another. A stone knows your name, yet you can’t coax it into revealing it to you. Instead you slip on your shoes, your rotten and beaten shoes and march into the city.
I had been traveling for months through an unknown land; my only companion was a spent mule who talked to me in a strange language. Horizon after horizon came and went, and yet nothing ever changed. Same grass, same corpses erupting with flowers from the earth. Same sun. I had forgotten where it was I was destined for in the first place. Nameless town piled up and then swallowed under by the sand, so that finally when we had reached the gates of the great city my companion turned to me, nuzzled with his nose, and give me a firm kick through the gates. I am still waiting to land.
In the beginning of the story a mother and her two children are walking across a moor. We can tell from the scene that they are most likely refuges from some catastrophe and from the moor we can tell that this is most likely England. They are dressed in ragged clothing befitting of the period narrative. They are framed by a cloudless steel gray sky, it is not raining but has been recently and the dewy grasses of the moor have soaked the dress and petticoat of the mother. The children are blank eyed and expressionless. Seen from a respectable distance, one that lingers right at the edge of humanity.
Later on, after the rats have slunk back in from the bowers to begin reclaiming their stake, the mother will pass into a deserted city. She will clutch her children close to her and shield their eyes from the rumble and viscera. She will pass into the blank black eye of a crow and through the door there into something beyond. The children wont know it, but they will be reinvented as ghosts, as shadows flitting in between the threads of the veil. The mother will rock them and curse god for not having invented the love story.
I am the smallest mouse scratching at the ecclesiastical door. Everywhere there is rain and I’m pretty sure the church itself is compiled of corpses, each one more holy than the next. There is a preacher in the bell tower forecasting the hour of our return. “Hallelujah hallelujah, the bells toll, All is bliss all is bliss.” The layman lies like a dog, curled up around his rotten master. The air is filled with cries for vengeance, with cries for recompense; but Oh the stench, the stench.
depth is an allusion I can ill afford
like putting your hand in a fire
there is something romantic about it.
Late evening, the world gets up and stumbles around a bit…
I’m thinking of a girl I knew in Paris.
Was there ever a Paris? Brown eyes I remember yes, but a Paris?
There is/ where this all rings true/ no real light
Circumstantial evidence against the promise of an undoing.
Too much filament in the lamps
One gets dreamy around the edges
takes on new indistinguishable shapes
the heart of which pumps fuel like blood
through an already disappearing vein.
I’m better off then I was this time a thousand years ago.
Already the bones are filling up with sand
a sun somewhere overhead needs to be put out
of it’s misery.
I’m tired and need to unfold myself.
- For nearly thirty years I lived under an assumed name, yet I remain unassuming.
- I once fought a cage match with Don Rickles.
- I took out a personals ad and answered it myself; it didn’t work out.
- My work on the Manhattan Project is still a state secret.
- I’ve climbed the Matterhorn.
- I always carry a .44 slug in my right hip pocket. I found it in a mens room at a carnival on the Jersey shore when I was 16, I’ve always thought it would one day bring me good luck. I still have hope.
- I have a reoccurring dream wherein I have been elected pope, but the pope hat is too big for my head and keeps falling down onto my shoulders, and it is really heavy and no one will lift it off me.
- As a child I had stigmata
- I’m worried that my love of the bourgeois interferes with my passion for the proletariat.
- I want to have a sex dream about Kafka.
- Everywhere you look was once a sea.
- I’m afraid.
- If you were to remove my skull you would find another underneath, and another, and another. A series of skulls, and fog– lots of fog.
- I invented the French kiss.
- I once worked for a man who would go from town to town selling strophes. It was my job to sit in the cart and keep it from blowing away.
- I was the first theorize a fifth state of matter.
- I hold forth my thumb to blot out the world.