List of the Lost

by Morrissey

  The oh-so-sudden and immediate retirement of Dean Isaac sneaked out into local newsprint, with smiles and waves following fifty years of devotional service as an impeccable educator. Still single at sixty-five years, he winked with easy conscience that he now at last had the time to find a wife – the utterly insensible assumption that a carefully preserved, pony-tailed slave might still be out there waiting, and in desperate need of Isaac’s crinkled crabbiness and a new set of dishcloths. The honorary evangelist spent a pleasant Tuesday morning leaning into his flower-beds by way of benevolent inspection as they trailed the border of the small and private college garden that he considered his own since the window bay of his magisterial study squinted out across it, latticed and of deep window sills. Always fighting himself, this was where he found the light that his heart always yearned for, and where he could forget his disturbing associations, no matter how capriciously the mind dragged the fat body along. He could look suffering directly in the eye as long as that suffering was not his own, yet he was now in a terrible rush, for he had never heard of sexual presumptions in either heaven or paradise, and there were now fewer years to cram more of it in – at least as far as his capacities would allow … as a chronicler of horror, for even at twenty years old his timing had been all wrong, and life’s general rites of passage were never his. The right response from the right loved one never came, and as middle age ambushed him, Isaac still struggled to construct lost youth at the Junior Prom that never was, and the Eagle Scouts that shut him out, having no idea what to do next, throughout years and years of sexual silence. Now, in slipping maturity, he was a sorry image of the overripe drifting into life’s final chapters as if they were a sandy whirlwind of death – which, in fact, they were. A solemn parley of memories filled dull Thursday evenings, but the doctor was becoming the patient, which, in his confidence game, he did not like. The pain of being jealous of the very flesh that we admire! The pain of longing to be what would never be! Life surrounds like lumbering fat, further demeaned by each racing year, slavishly chasing the unattainable. Mother knew everything yet said nothing, for to say anything was to provide oxygen. Mother died and the son lied. It would all be over soon enough, anyway, and dean of the faculty had been position enough, and it is so easy to pervert and corrupt whilst occupying the most trusted and endowed chair of academic ranks. But oh, could there be someone one day who might make sense of me? And if it is not designed to be, then why am I able to imagine it?

  “Excuse me, Dean Isaac?” Ezra appeared, closing the heavy wrought-iron gate that led into the secret garden, and he positioned himself in Isaac’s view.

  “Now, you know very well that this is a private garden and you have no rightful access to it,” smiled Isaac, with the gentle reproach of a kindly pastor. Ezra stepped closer still.

  “Did you not hear what I’ve just said?” went on Isaac, with slight scientific detachment, looking about for flowers in bloom. Ezra now decided that he, too, would smile as he spoke.

  “By way of some apology I should tell you that I am here to help you,” he said. Isaac stiffened and stood upright, as if preparing a reprimand.

  “Help me?” Isaac’s smile began to dim. “Your impertinence is about to get you into serious trouble. I know who you are – you are our little Ezra Pound, and I issue the most severe warning to you. Now, get out.”

  “Before any punishment takes place I will tell you that I am perilously close to saving your soul, although after today you will never have a life of your own,” said Ezra.

  “A greeting-card jokester you might very well be within your own fraternity, but arty-smartiness does not impress me. I shall call the House Master at once and you will be dealt with, and let’s hope that this sort of hilarity does not tempt you ever again. I do not like you, so go away.” Isaac made a move towards the wrought-iron gate, yet a small part within him knew more than he knew, and it broke down at impending sadness even if the impression of sound reason must be reinforced at all costs. This Ezra Pound obviously knew something, and was about to blab, and Isaac had no wish to hear anything at all that might prick his confidence.

  “Noah Barbelo,” said Ezra, “and the org y of cruelty that ended his life. You read about it in the newspapers, I’m sure, but this was not the first time you knew about it.”

  “What has that to do with me?” Isaac’s voice suddenly a thin timbre.

  “You killed him. If you didn’t, then make the denial in court.”

  “What sort of scientific hypothesis is this? You have sealed your expulsion from Priorswood with those very words, and through proper legal channels I shall make such claims of slander that will financially destroy your entire family. You are a bully-boy and your words have inflicted an unimaginable web of sorrow on your own family. I shall see to that with no difficulty. Your joke is in poor taste and I can only assume that you are dismayingly simple in intellect.”

  Isaac’s smile was now shrewd, but the eyes were downcast.

  “That is the wrong answer and the wrong reaction. You are not as sharp as I’d imagined,” Ezra stood his ground.

  “Who do you think you are, and what do you want from me?”

  “Again, the wrong answer … for you are now bargaining … and as for this college, well, I shan’t miss it very much … which is im-material anyway, since I now look with pity on your tall and lonely figure. Your shoulders are tired and your eyes are transfixed with terror. The smile is frightened. All you possess are remnants of snobbery … which is not enough to save you now, even though you have learned over many years how to sound right even when wrong. That’s the entire point of people like you, isn’t it? Confidence and composure automatically qualifies you as being accurate and correct … the mannerly way of getting out of things … the meticulous measuring of words … all done the conventional way, phenomenally evil.”

  Isaac quickly looked cautiously to the left, and then to the right, and sensing a clear coast he whacked the back of his right fist across Ezra’s face so violently that Ezra, as solid as he was, dropped to the ground. Looking up at Isaac he could see the polluted agent of trust sliding into barbaric mode, loosening his belt – for what reason, Ezra could only guess – and Ezra hastily stumbled to his feet and collected himself whilst wisely moving back towards the gate. “There is nothing you can do, and there is no chance of rest for you now, for I am not alone in knowing what I told you today … and although I stand alone in this garden, you are, in fact, surrounded.” Ezra fled the scene, and some things are indeed too much for the human mind as his final fleeting glimpse of the Isaac countenance caught a bigoted face teetering upon breakdown, God or no God.

  Whilst the muddled media frenzied about with expertly worried brows over the Watergate cover-up, adding their own fake fury and mania to turbulence and greed (as if actually surprised at any wrong-doing in high places), the cosmos, never to be halted, laughed at its audience of illiterates and wound its way on. Earth, after all, was either an asylum or a prison cell compared to the greater universe. Most Americans were still primarily afraid of the weather, and required infantile reassurances of comfort … as Saigon falls. From Watergate to the crappy hatched Wheel of Fortune the system worked well as long as the people thought abjectly of themselves and as long as free enquiry remained impossible for the average American, to whom mushroom-shaped clouds and the stoutest of bibles kept the populace either shriveled or stoned, with only the stars above to determine our destinies. The frightening mentality of the daily press went on and on, unsure of the true age of the sun, yet condemning to death anyone who enjoyed marijuana. The strong are always barbaric, and the finest working models of American society are still those who would never dare question firmness, strictness, Christianity, or the untouchable food and farming industries. Correctional facilities, or jails, were overstuffed with the hapless poor – whose poverty was their own fault and a crime in itself, yet prisons were absent of errant lawyers, wayward banker
s or blundering judges who had failed society. It could seem fair to assume that the police existed only in order to protect the rich from the poor without a slip of evidence to suggest otherwise. Bible belters could not loosen their belts; America will burn in hell should it fail to uphold beliefs for which none had evidence.

  “This is International Women’s Year,” muttered Eliza as she slouched across Ezra’s bed. “Only this year, of course … next year we all return to our pens … as in places of confinement, not writing materials. Could you imagine International Men’s Year? The very words are ridiculous … yet apparently not for women. We’re right up there with the Year of the Pig.”

  “Well,” Professor Ezra began, “England apparently has its first leader of a political party who is female.”

  “No,” said Eliza, “England has its last female party leader. She’s already a token woman … saying she’s not a feminist … umm, I wonder how she broke through those gates, then … on the strength of her featherweight boxing, I suppose. I hate womb-men like that … they just can’t wait to be one of the boys … and just watch, if she becomes prime minister she won’t hire any women into her government. Why do I even care? I mean, just look at her face – it’s all there in plain anguish … cheat the poor … ”

  Suddenly Ezra broke into a heavy sob, and Eliza threw her arms around him. “It’s all too much,” he said.

  “Margaret Thatcher? I know. But politics only attracts that kind of prejudiced cipher,” she offered, soaking into Ezra. “We never have Anne Sexton or James Baldwin types running the country. They’d make far too much sense.”

  “No, not Margaret Hatchet … Everything here … the boy … Isaac … the non-tournament …”

  “Her name is Thatcher … although, I dunno … you could be right when you say Hatchet. Just look at that boneless face … if ever an engine of grief… Look, I wouldn’t worry about the tourn­ament. It’s already unwon. It’s gone, and … haven’t you noticed? More important things have replaced it. What’s so impressive about running along clutching a little-boy baton? Children are starving to death all over the world … government officials are having enlightened activists bumped off … dictators are slaughtering the people of their own country … two billion loving animals a year are being butchered in concentration camps … chained alongside their sisters and their mothers as they wriggle and struggle for a compassion alien to the human spirit … and you’re worried about sports results?” Eliza rainstormed her anger down on Ezra. “Have you ever watched the TV news, and listened to all of their scare-tactic propaganda … every story designed to frighten you, scare you off, make you feel small, make you feel alarmed yet hopeless … and then – bam! – ‘and now we have some sports news’, as if this ought to counterbalance all the shit that’s happening in the world. What an insult to the victims of mass slaughter and war and murder to have it followed by sports news. How does sports news qualify to be mentioned alongside the murderous insanity of this planet? Why are sports even thought to be a national subject? I don’t know anyone who plays golf or Australian rugby. Why should I care? Also, you don’t ever see a story on the news that tells you how you can rally against or object or contest or halt or call to arms … or how you can dispose of corrupt governments … no! They just tell how dreadful it is and how endangered you are and how nothing can be done to make change.” Eliza scoffs, ignited by her own words.

  “Well, why do you watch the TV news, then?” Ezra was soothing.

  “I don’t, but I know it’s there and I know it never changes because the object is to appear to inform people whilst actually telling them nothing. Politicians are the same. They are trained to appear to answer questions without actually parting with information. If you’re in politics your main skill must be concealing the truth, and that’s all you ever need to do. It’s almost comical … this possession of power … this preoccupation with appearing dangerous. We, my lover, my friend, are their enemies … we, the people … never to be told how easy it is to get rid of dictators. I mean, when I was at school I wasn’t taught how to deal with the police, or how to deal with any judicial authority. Were you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because both have less power than we’d imagine and they rely on our ignorance in order to keep their jobs.”

  “They have hardly any powers. I remember my uncle being cross-examined and being told how ignorance of the law is no excuse, and he said ‘your law is not my law,’ and the judge extended his sentence just for saying those words. The judge had no interest in what my uncle meant because … um, well, let’s not get into the wanton buggery of judicial thuggery … yet, how sad it must be to wake up and to fall asleep dreaming about violations and violators and courts and slapping people down … this pretense of goodness and godliness enforcing law by any means and with such churchgoing disapproval intent on jailing the entire population … getting the black kids hooked so that they’re too dazed and harmless and spaced. You’ve got to hand it to Congress, they know how to disable their opposition. The Narcotics Department puts the drugs on the streets, the kids get hooked, the youth are crim­inalized and the state retains control of everyone’s movements. I thought the Nazis lost the war? Arrest the police!”

  Angela Davis looked down from the wall.

  “I’ve got to do it for Harri,” started Ezra, “I’ve got to get this tournament together. It can’t slide away. I’ve got to pull Rims back.”

  “But Rims has quit eight times!” shouted Eliza, “he’s gone!”

  “His no doesn’t always mean no. I can get another day’s grace from him.”

  “You talk about him like he’s the Pope,” sniffed Eliza.

  “Oh he’s much more important than that.”

  Reinsman Rims called everyone together for a final crack at the track. He was in his best charioteer mood with his coachy-coachy tones all a-shower of stats and this and thats, overages and averages. “Why – do – I – even – bother?” he had begun, “and for that matter, why do you? I have far better things to do. There’s Japanese golf on channel 38 today and I could be, well, I could be …”

  “Japanese?” stuck in Nails.

  Dibbs suddenly laughed far too loudly, like a booby-hatch inmate.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Rims in a boggled drawl. Dibbs’ expression reversed to a frostbitten frown. Though their teal kits and tackle and traps were impressive, the stringy squad also looked very much the unfit outfit, a varsity of pity platooned in gloom.

  “Alright, Bobby Unser, what exactly is going on?” Rims directed to Ezra. “The IAAF would rightly shoot me dead if I presented you as roadworthy. The National Federation of Athletics Associations wouldn’t be much interested either. What is going on? Tell Telly all about it.”

  “There are worms mating in the hollowed sockets of Harri’s eyes,” wheezed Ezra.

  “And lucky he is to have us mourn him. There are graves deserted all over the world. There were healthy young Polish women who died revealing nothing to Nazi soldiers. Most lives come to a pointless end, a scrap of paper bearing a hastily scribbled name stuffed inside a jam-jar, and no death ever stopped the world. Life’s sharp corners come to us all, and don’t think you’ll be excluded. If I had the gift of adequate words I would harshly tell you that nothing has happened to Harri that does not await the rest of us. Your time will come. Or would you rather curl up and die today? Your end is not yet, and that, I’m afraid, is all that life is about, so stop thinking about how things ought to be and … just look around you. Faith is a very precious component, wrest from it what you can, this day is for you, and you’ll wish for its return in time, so shut your mouth and set an example to oblivion because it’s been unable to nab you as yet. Feel unhappy? Work it off. You fail, you die. Brim with school pride and generate pep for the team, otherwise dry your little button-eyes and get your cold, dead legs in action.”


  Lynette Fromme sat entranced in her private quarters, debunked yet determined, as she premeditated making a run at the assassination of President Gerald Ford. Intrigue fed dreams with blitzkrieg schemes and Fromme would liquidate with one pulled trigger as her chartered course, calling out with a shootist’s plea for cleaner air for the people of America, for healthy water for the people of America, and for respect for animals – each apparently amiss on the busy Ford agenda. In other rooms, Sara Jane Moore also shaped Ford’s neutralization by taking him out in much the same way; a heavy date for a president who was about to meet the people – or two, at least, but minus the usual pre-assigned photo-op flimflam fakery. How do the people get through to the man of the people? Well, they don’t – not if he can help it. Both hit-women would coincidentally present arms in this coming September of 1975, although on different days, and even though both would be inches away from Ford’s brisket pecs the firearms of both Fromme and Moore would bedevil the hunters in a bewitchingly jinxed fashion, and they would both fail to waste the president. Both women would be imprisoned for far longer terms than the benevolent gods had allotted for Gerald Ford to live out the remainder of his natural life on planet Earth; their actions so astonish­ing that even Ford’s natural death did not allow Fromme and Moore the freedom to at least dance on his grave. Thus, they remained in jail for attempting to kill someone whom they not only did not kill, but someone who was in any event no longer alive … as they languish in prison as a reminder to all that the law makes up its own details as it goes along, and that society cannot threaten those in power by whom society feels threatened. Politicians marvel at the submissive gullibility of the electorate, and the hang-hungry judges of America remained beagle-beaked on their benches; blindfolded Father Time always ready to throw the book and run up the flagpole.