THE PENCIL OF TRANSUBSTANTIATION
The Pencil of Transubstantiation slides across the page like a figure skater dressed as an undertaker. An undertaker with an expression of fake concern. But let us praise the faults of the writer guiding the Pencil of Transubstantiation across the frozen pond of the page. Fault number one: praise to him for stealing a pumpkin pie and claiming he was bringing it to the children at the hospital. Fault number two: praise to him for remaining in bed while his apartment was on fire, refusing to show undue excitement. Fault number three: praise to him for making his girlfriend stay in bed with him and read from the Sunday comics while the firemen climbed in their window. Fault number four: praise to him for wielding the Pencil of Transubstantiation. Fault number five: praise to him for failing to mention to the students in his living room that he had just stepped over a corpse in his backyard. The Pencil of Transubstantiation. It is made of a fusion of hyper-nanos with atomized neurotransgenesis. Also known as part A and part B. The finger bone connected to the hand bone. Amen.
THE IPOD OF PITHY
Herewith you are kith to the iPod of Pithy. The essence of pithiness. The nit, the grit many have sought to savor. Its slender, stemlike girth in the palm of your hand, the power of which is the grit of the iPod of Pithy. Just having it clipped to your belt makes you kin to a certain flippancy. Whip it out of its sheath, you are with it, hip to the silence at the gist of gist. Your future resembles the ancient past, when withering gods strolled the earth. When Adam slept among the megaliths on par with his trophy wife, Lilith. And that lithe, slithering, fork-tongue Hava, shibboleth, she of the tithing Granny Smith, not yet hither. The iPod of Pithy. You are Picard crouched behind a boulder on the Planet of the Pixilated. You are Pithecanthropus, straddling the width between ape and man. A locksmith with the key to the mysterious monolith, you are pure pithiness, sans the whither, the thither.
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The Page of Feathers proffered a feather while the judge pretended to read from the page as he pronounced his sentence. The defense lawyer, having heard it all before, turned off his hearing aid. The defendant, fearing the worst, turned off his pager. There was a little girl sitting in the corner; her name was Page, and her hair was cut in a pageboy. The defendant, who felt guilty even though he had done nothing wrong, felt as if a page had been torn out of his life. He heard that faraway, diminishing sound, which he knew was the new sentence, and already his understanding of it was passé; he would not even catch a glimpse of the new period as it vanished into itself like a collapsing star. Or did it vanish more like the pages of that book he threw into the air-well of a twelve-story hotel where he recalled he had been the only guest, if you did not count the ladies of the night who sat in the lobby turning the pages of a book that explained every dream in the world? Under the topic of Pages, the book said, If you dream of a page being turned by an unseen hand, something small you said a long time ago will one day come back to change everything.
HISTORY
The wobbly ceiling fan threatens to decapitate the poetry workshop. They write quickly and nervously. Poetry, the instructor says, is fraught with happenstance and danger. Night in the American South, but the weather, apparently misdirected, has arrived from the Arabian Desert. History enters the room, when Lila, writing about a silk dress, remembers her childless grandfather, tailor to the Shah of Iran. He had laughed at the Shah, there on his knees with his nephews. The Shah, angry, gave him one week to find a second wife who could bear children. Or else. Now Lila sits writing about silk flowing through her grandfather’s hands. The ceiling fan shakes like an airplane forcing its way through the wind.
GOTTA HAVE
Cousin Furlow and his dog Keeter and his good-for-nothing pal, Wing Nut. Gotta have a front porch, screened-in, and the screen door. Mandatory poor unfortunate child, tow-headed, albino, with his wrists hanging out of his sleeves. There’s got to be crunching of hardtack in his closed mouth to remind us of all Daddy brought home from the war. Gotta go down to the river, it will be dry, except for the mud and dead leaves. Then down to the well we’ll go but that’s all washing machines, rusty skillets and maybe some unexploded ordnance. Gotta be quiet except for the screen door and what we can’t forget Mama said Papa made her do at night. That’ll bring back the smell from the whiskey jar beside the bed. We’ll have to peer into the blank button eyes of the poor unfortunate child. Gotta see the front yard with dirt swept clean of acorns. And there’s Cousin Furlow’s limousine held together with Mississippi chrome. Gotta have that shilly-shally white line snaking down two miles of straight road and in the ditch the empty five-gallon paint bucket with the one bullet hole. Gotta have that, for sure—for all we know, that was Mama’s way of saying goodbye.
TRIPOD
The barber painted red lines on the sidewalk, across from where he had last seen Sonny. And Grandpa, where was he? Last seen in a trailer made of air that had no windows, no doors. A nearby forest held the evening star hostage. A newspaper was found bound in wire. There were uninvited angels descending rickety ladders in their overalls. It was clear they had been drinking again. Just then, sunset crumbled into ice. A shop that sold rubber bands opened for business. A small dog that had been attacked by an alligator stumbled out of the forest on three legs and joined the boys at the barbershop. They named him Tripod. On Father’s Day the barber and Tripod went fishing in the cemetery. Who needs water anyway? Who needs fish? They had three rods, a ball to play with, and a cooler full of beer to sit on.
LITTLE SISTER
She was lost inside the rain. But instead of dropping breadcrumbs she put them in her pocket. Each footprint became a tiny lake. Each tiny lake, part of a small stream. Because lightning bugs hide when it rains, Great-Grandfather lost his lightning and could not light her way. There was heat lightning but that was only friction. In another story, Little Sister does not go to school in the rain. She is hiding with Aunt Dot in the woods. Aunt Dot, landlady of the woods. Way, way down, past Birmingham, Alabama. Inside the deafening noise of frogs.
THE DRUMMERS
The drummers have returned. They drag their feet in the dust and only beat their drums on occasion. Some drum against their own chests, some drum against their bellies. Some do not drum but think about it sometimes. You could say, what kind of drumming is this anyway? Obviously, not the drumming of the heart; not the famed drum battle between Gene Krupa and Buddy Rich at the Savoy Ballroom in 1953. Not the drumming of a chartreuse butterfly tangled in a spider web. Not the drumming of the milkman’s fingers as he recalls how the cream arched up, pressing from beneath the cardboard bottle cap like a seal under ice. But never mind, who cares about the milkman, the nots or the knots or the traveling salesmen or the yo-yo demonstrators? Listen-up! Pay attention! The drummers have returned. They drag their feet in the dust and only beat their drums on occasion.
THE MYSTERIOUS
The Mysterious disappeared one night, just as mysteriously as it had once so long ago mysteriously arrived. Come Back, Mysterious, was a banner pulled by a small plane that later crashed under mysterious circumstances. Now, without The Mysterious, even a word like circumstances can seem rather mysterious. Cir—a one-ring circus that sets up at dawn and is gone by sunset, leaving no trace. Cum—obvious sexual connotations aroused by the mysterious slit in a skirt that opens slightly on a thigh, then closes. Stances—those who stand by the sea in their long black overcoats, resembling from a distance the pilings of a pier, a pier whose deck drifted away with the tide, mysteriously.
THE MYSTERIOUS BRASSIERE
The mysterious sunglasses stared at the mysterious brassiere. It was hanging from a branch that dangled over the high walls of a cemetery where no one had ever been buried. The mysterious brassiere did not want to be mistaken for a mere bra. Had it not played some part in the duel with sabers in the deserted Chapel of the Holy Mystery? Had it not been used to gather two saving cups of rainwater by two shipwrecked sailors? Meanwhile, The Mysterious itself walked quietly away, leaving
the mysterious brassiere and mysterious sunglasses behind. The Mysterious’ footprints were faint. But one was slightly deeper than the other, suggesting that it was limping, or had The Mysterious been injured in some way?
POSTCARD FROM PINK
You would like Lily. She wears a wig of straight, coal-black hair. She has three wig-mannequins on her dresser. Each is wearing a version of the same wig. There are light bulbs edging her mirror. It is hard to tell how old she is. She must have been a stripper way back when. She wears white pedal-pushers. She has a great body. Her bedroom is done in pink and white. Her Lhasa apso wears a pink collar. I am only here because I am painting her bathroom. Pink. She chews bubblegum but does not make bubbles. I imagine she has a benefactor. I imagine she has a boyfriend. He is a private detective. A former Secret Service man. He was one of the men who were supposed to protect President Kennedy. But the night before the assassination all the Secret Service men partied hard. He was hungover the next day and had his eyes closed behind his dark glasses when the shooting started. Lily ignores me. And why not. I am not a provider or a protector. I am but the applicator of pink. I am writing to you from inside a conch shell. The sound of the paint roller against the wall of the shell is a single note of pink. When I close my eyes I hear the ocean. Sunset, pink sky. Pink froth of waves. Papal pink. Pink smoke. Pink mist. Sniper pink.
POSTCARD FROM LAKE MANZANITA
The trees here are made of glass, and they are alive. Actually, there is only one tree. It rises out of the lake, a huge scarlet and yellow tower. It feeds on air and plastic cushions that float in the water. When we arrived I was alone. How is that possible? I must have, in our haste to pack, driven off without you. I can picture you standing in the driveway in the predawn light, surprised, or perhaps amused, as the tail-lights of our car recede in the dark. Did you turn and go back to your puzzle? Tomorrow I will try fishing. They say the fish here are also made of glass. The only bait that works on them is tiny, triangular mirrors, each with a number or letter etched into its surface. Figuring out which number or letter is effective at which hour can be a challenge. But locals say that a small #1, trolled on the surface so it creates a V, always works for a few brief but frantic moments, one hour after sunset.
POSTCARD FROM A NUDE BEACH
The beach is naked. No sand. No pebbles. No shale. No stones. The waves, as if they were ashamed, roll up to it tentatively, and just before they reach the shore, they turn back. Above, seeming to hang in the wind like mobiles, the skeletons of three gulls. It is said that if you should fall asleep on this beach you’d wake up in your dream and stay there.
POSTCARD FROM THE LIBRARY FIRE
A scroll on the Doppler effect written by one Dionysus of Thebes. A book, that when opened, became a kite. It is said that the kite was always the same color as the sky it was flown in. A book that predicted the future. They say it ended with the year 2010. Lost. All lost in the library fire. The tour guide says he stayed up all night reading my poems to his wife. The gum he is chewing does not mask the ouzo on his breath. A former slave, his adopted name is Free Man Ray. There was even a book on the history of the wave that toppled the colossus at Rhodes. Wandering though the ruins without you I wish you were here and that we were strangers. I like the picture on the front, do you? The splayed book, the three roofing nails pinning the pages back, the flames.
POSTCARD FROM A CIVIL WAR REENACTMENT
Had breakfast at the Sweet Shop. A placard at the entrance: Arms and legs where thrown out the second story window. A wagon waited below to receive them. Last night, I slept at the college. The hallways were lined with empty cots. As was the library, City Hall, the Church of the Redeemer, even the cemetery was lined with cots. I thought there would be formations, marching in step, uniforms, and loud but harmless explosions. I saw an old man wandering through an alley who looked like Walt Whitman. Sometimes he would crouch down close to the ground. He seemed to be speaking to someone. 5:30 a.m., mist low over the fields. I had expected reveille but it was silent. Except for one mockingbird that was imitating the songs of different birds, hoping one would answer, revealing the location of its nest.
NIGHTSTAND
A book is a finer pillow than a stone. A drowned book floats face down. A book in a sandstorm constantly changes its mind. Who has not heard of the book, carried over the heart, that stopped a bullet? A watch was in love with a thief, but the thief had many watches. He wore several on each arm. Like most watches, eventually it got sick of dreaming. Nobody cares that the book eats so little to stay alive. Nobody cares about the book of bandages. There is a book looming on the horizon. The book open to the sky is the horizon. What to say about the water bottle? It hardly exists, having already failed as a river. And the rain, tapping its fingers, so impatient, hasn’t it already failed as a cloud?
THE CHAIR
Sometimes I wake from a fitful sleep. I have the impression that you have been staring at me while I slept. I reach over to touch you, but you are gone for the day. On your pillow there is a piece of paper that looks like a note. I unfold it and read it. It says: The Chair.
There is a chair at the bottom of Botany Bay. It is embedded in a tub of concrete. Once, the remains of a mobster were tied to the chair. But they have been eaten, disintegrated, floated away in little pieces of bone and belt-buckle and button. Is this the chair you’re talking about?
When Pancho Villa, riding with his army, would hear on the radio, El Presidente is seated on his chair, he thought it was a saddle. That is why, in that photograph of him seated, at last, in El Presidente’s chair, he looks a bit disappointed. Is this the chair you’re talking about?
In the first, exploratory stages of interrogation, unnamed employees of an unnamed government agency will ask you, politely, to please be seated in a chair. Is this the chair you’re talking about?
Once, a chair did not get packed into a moving truck. Or maybe it fell out of the moving truck. A beautiful woman found it and would sit on it while she played the cello. Later, the chair was stolen by a homeless man. Because it was an office chair, he was inspired to apply for a job. Because he already had an office chair, he made a favorable impression and was given the job and eventually rose to become Chair of Operations. Is this the chair you’re talking about? A great chair is called a throne. The greatest of all chairs is called The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations Millennium General Assembly. It was found in a stable. But it is only a facsimile of the throne upon which God is seated, which itself is a larger version of the throne upon which Jesus is seated. Is this the chair you’re talking about?
Sometimes when I am at work, sitting, not on a chair, but on an overturned five-gallon bucket, I bite into the sandwich you have made for me. I taste a piece of paper. I extract it from my mouth. I already know what it says, but I read it anyway.
FELSENFELD
Felsenfeld. He disliked trees because they stayed. He rode a horse across Mali. He could not stop leaving. He could not stop arriving. Felsenfeld, he rode his horse, Chance, across Mali. He kept doves in the bathroom. He could not stop arriving. He blew up his own car. Underneath his overcoat he had a sawed-off shotgun. Was arrested for impersonating a saint. His name like a field. Like the sound of galloping. Traded his wife’s dress for a bow. He gave me the bow. For my wedding, he gave me a necklace of tiny skulls he stole from a monastery in Katmandu and a shrunken head from the Amazon. For my wedding, a necklace of tiny skulls. I could not keep it: lost, the bow with its long, serrated fishing arrows. He could not stop leaving or arriving. His name, like water cascading down a long stairway.
THE ALIBI ROOM
A dog is sleeping at the entrance to The Alibi Room. No, you decide as you step over him—he is dead. Perhaps for a few days. He was the stray dog. Now the town will need a new stray dog. Felsenfeld is sitting at the bar. Norris the bartender is lying asleep on the floor. His left foot is twitching. Felsenfeld sits perfectly still. He reminds you of a photo you saw once of a bar in Lebanon after a ter
rorist attack. An attractive woman in an evening dress with a drink in front of her. One elbow on the bar, a cigarette in her hand. She looked as if she were signaling the bartender. But she was dead. If only the town was not named Lassitude. It could have been called Lassie Town. Or Attitude Town. If only The Alibi Room had not been named The Alibi Room. It could have been called Al’s Bar. Or The Alabama. Or The Ali Baba. Felsenfeld steps over Norris and pours me a tall one.
THE FELSENFELD MOVEMENT
We thought we were in another town so I asked this man who was sitting on the curb, What town is this? He answered, We Thought We Were in Another Town. I thought he was a wise guy and considered smacking him. But then I noticed the sign: WE THOUGHT WE WERE IN ANOTHER TOWN. POPULATION 200.
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