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If you’d care to think of it now:
A forest made of hair
An undergrowth so dense
No hound can bay through it
or ,
The kids giggle quietly
But you cant see them;
They snuggle in shadows
But their eyes hold milk
That drips amid the trees,
That, you can see.
Their bodies’ sheen
Like the oiliness of a magpie;
They flit through the forest
Like droves of magpies
Of magpies,
I was once told:
1 for despair
2 for joy
3 for a girl
4 for a boy
5 for silver
6 for gold
7 seven for a secret never to be told
Secrets and truths
Wan and green
Buried like sunken forests,
Their forms fan out in the tide
Until little baby darkness
Collapses in pieces
Pierced by light
So terrible
I don’t care to think of it,
Face crusted over with sleep;
No crown rends my dull brow
All thorns are dulled by quiet
And God lay there:
With the white languor of a woman
Expecting neutral company
Or guests that would hover
And say nothing, but smile
And look upwards
God was covered in petals;
The roses and violets of horror
But smiled as if nothing was wrong
These days
Which we forever think about
These days
No forest remains
But a beach:
Licked and sucked by the ocean
The beach like a set of feeble gums
To suck and slurp at the ocean;
The beach like a sick mouth
Hanging open, yawning
The kids crashed together
Gnashed their teeth
Burning in garish light
Lolling in the frothing foam
Of that dissolving strand
Smashing one another
Like a fool banging symbols
God sat alone in the dunes
Smiling; his legs crossed
And back bent:
He might be watching
The kids rolling in the sea
But it might only be
Oil shining on a puddle
And if the kids
Hurt so deeply
Why did God smile
When they ran to him
Out of the sea
Up the shore
Little paws held up
With their bird’s confusion
And absurd sorrow?
He didn’t understand
Or didn’t care to think of it,
He just smiled
with eyes like stained glass
The kids ran on the beach
And God raised his head
Slowly and ponderously
Like a great dog
Watching the distant interest
Drift across those sands
God rose and followed them
The sands slid from beneath him
God stumbled and staggered
When he reached the kids
They were squatting
In the carrion sand
Their faces to the dirt
They dug the sand
Until brine began
Pooling in the hole
it made a sound like
"*suck*"
The kids raised their faces to God,
To say: "Nothing gets out alive"
Breathing a chaos stronger than creation,
Their faces true bone carvings of hatred
They held shovels in their hands
And held roses in their teeth
They beat him until he was dead
And dragged his body to where
The waves lipped the shore
I don’t care about any of it
I cant be bothered at all
Today I wont wake up
All parts of me flowing away
Draped in slithering silks
I am marvelously pomp
Will I work today?
No, I will only smoke
The moonlight sifted down complacently
God’s body lay in the lapping tide
Years passed and it sank into the sand
There are barks of thunder
And invisible gasping clouds
Surely it is a time for umbrellas
Sincerely,
Jamie
When there is an obligation Krug will forever miss that obligation. A great pity, for there is always an obligation (one which he is fated to miss). He is granted little time to rage over or lament the missed obligation before he, with great alarm, will recall another obligation to which he is obligated.
We will find him scurrying along the edges of sidewalks holding with one hand a tattered hat and with the other a shabby valise. He was at the moment engaged as such, and was scurrying most frantically.
He tripped on a loose stone in the pavement and dropped his hat. Bother, a hat is soiled still more. But what a surprise! What an alarming treasure it was that Krug had found, nestling like a quiet white bird in a crevice between the rough stones of his obligations. A bit of time, it was. The countenance of Krug expressed incredulity.
He did not know what to do; he did not know what to do at all, confronted by this idle, loafing time, slouching like a criminal.
He did not know what to do.
He wandered to the outskirts of a forest bordered by a river. The forest looked damp, he could not see it with great clarity--refracted, so it was. Oh yes, he did see a footbridge that might be crossed to enter the forest. The footbridge sloped downwards, as if breaking or sinking. What a brazen maneuver to cross that bridge, indeed. But crossed it, yes. Oh! Like a bather, he sidled along a path that ran into the woods. He did so guiltily, for he felt nude. From the path he could see a field, green and blue, it all was very still; fog hung above it. Krug could see the rays of light, solid and definite, frozen in the swishing blue haze above the swaying green grass. He wandered still further and paused by a tree. Great sections of the trunk were exposed, how unnatural. Green and blue. Aquamarine, that is. It was, that trunk. Mud or clay, rich and malleable, it looked. What to mold, what to shape, out of that trunk? A small village, an aquarium for the birds, many little people, a woman? Is a mermaid is a good thing to encounter? No, they suck you beneath the foam into the deep that is thick with cold and you will drown. Krug pressed, with inquisitive foot, the trunk to see, for it was a time of spare time and ridiculous fantasy. The trunk was hard, not to be molded. A pity. He stood beneath the tree for a moment and looked at the trunk, how wet it looked. He looked up, higher up, above the surface of the water, the tree looked dry, white, cracked, brittle, sick; coral dies when it says above the water, it does. Disgusting! How sordid up there! Scattered around the tree were the curled up, shrunken corpses of leaves—yellow or beige, they were. As shrimp, many dead shrimp—the absurd husks of dead shrimp! What!
He thought he looked at them for a long time, but it wasn’t. It is never a long time when Krug thinks it has been. Krug waved his tentacles, a marvelous squid. He did not move then. He waved his fins; he was a burst swimmer, that's right. When there is less drag than thrust, Krug can swim. Bravo, Krug!
So he swam along his path. Then he saw the bridge and some ducks swimming below the bridge, down below the bridge, in the water. How upsetting! Those ducks do not cohere! Krug spat at one and then felt ashamed. He made a bashful face and held his hat in his hands, penitent (the valise, it would seem, has been lost). Devil take the ducks, Krug’s face expressed righteous indignation. Of course, he knew now that he would drown before very long.
A DREAM DREAMPT BY A DEAR FRIEND OR A VERY LOST ARTICLE OF CLOTHING:
CONCERNS 2 FIGURES:
A.) a child who wears the hapless fleece (whom for the sake of brevity will be referred to as ‘the hapless fleece’, but is not, as unaware speculation might chance to presume, the wooly covering of a sheep or goat, nor is the personnage a soft and warm fabric with a texture similar to sheep’s wool)
B.) a severe inquisitor (who remains unsmiling)
[set beneath: the echoes and light that played in the domed basilican roof of the library]
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QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
"Provide the surname and forename the subject concerned."
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
"..."
QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
“State the age of the subject.”
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
“Between 30 and 80 years hold to his name and person.”
(a severe inquisitor grows yet more unsmiling)
QUERIED a severe inquisitor:
"In what areas of academic expertise and experience, was the subject possessing knowledge?"
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
"Philosophy, History, Literature, Art, Cognitive Science, Egyptology, Classical Music, Mathematics, Classics and Antiquity, Epistemologies, Etymologies, Forestry, Law, Modern and Ancient Languages, Astronomy, Chemistry, Anatomy, Biology, Bioluminescense, Culinary Arts, Numismatics."
QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
"What demeanor would an observer find to be most freqently expressed in the subject’s countenance?"
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
"Thoughtfulness, Solemnity, Gravity, Ponderousness."
QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
"Could the subject ever have been said to have executed 'a ponderous dance'?
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
"Never."
QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
“In what sublunary localitys was the subject most frequently to be found?”
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
“The cobblestone streets, the quiet libraries, the upper-deck of the double decker busses, the dimly lit restaurants, amongst the clouds of chalk dust, on the paths of the botanical gardens.
QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
"When embarking on a walk through the gardens, what accompanied the subject?"
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
"A large felt hat, a mahogany pipe, a cane on which rested the carved head of a duck, a beard, a careful gait, lofty meditations."
QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
“In which cerebral localities was the subject always found?”
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
“The most noble territories of the mind.”
QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
“What was the subject’s highest ambition while in childhood?”
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
“To grind an organ in a crowded square accompanied by a White-headed Capuchin monkey performing acrobatic tricks.”
QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
"Of what quantity numbered the subject's pupils?"
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
"More than would blacken the sky."
(a severe inquisitor darkens with rage)
QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
"Were classes held in the sky?"
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
"No."
QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
“With what degree of respect and reverence did his pupils and colleagues regard him?”
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
“The utmost.”
QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
“What cognomen was bestowed upon the subject by the pupils?”
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
“Theognis.”
QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
“What was the subject’s most preferred piece of music?”
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
“Edvard Krieg’s “In der Halle des Bergkönigs” or “In the Hall of the Mountain King.”
QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
“With what decorative awards, medals, laurels had the subject been bestowed?”
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
“The Master’s Award for the Outstanding Academic Achievement Aware, the Academic Pro-Rector’s Excellence Award, The Best Dissertation Award, Dean’s List, High Honors, The Purple Heart, The Innovative Small Business Award, The Wolf Prize in Agriculture, The Iron Cross, the Bruce Medal (awarded by the Astronomical Society of the Pacific), Mr. Universe, Miss America, the Hubbard Medal (awarded by the National Geographic Society), the Comstock Prize in Physics, a Prince Nez awarded by an Australian Magnate, The Rabbi Martin Katzenstein Award, Orange Ribbon in Regional Bridge Tournament, The Lawrence of Arabia Badge, the Gold Award (Girl Scouts of the USA), a Badge of Recognition for Those Who Have Saved the Queen of England from Drowning in Ale, Le Legion d’honneur, L’Ordre National du Merite, L’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, L’Ordre des Jambon et Fromage, the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor, Hero of the Russian Federation, Employee of the Month (Burger King), Community of Christ International Peace Award, Caird Medal.”
QUERIED the severe inquisitor:
"How did the subject dine?"
QUOTH the hapless fleece:
“Alone.”
(a smile is faintly perceptible)
The duchess had been bothered by a reoccurring nightmare. The nightmare, though not by any means disturbing or violent, had left a deep impression on her thoughts. The duchess would be sitting on the seashore, quite alone, looking out to sea. She would see nothing there; the infinite tranquil voids of blue sky reflected in the equally serene glass of the ocean, the diminutive, slightly curved, as if drawn in careless pencil, line where the two converged at the horizon and perhaps, a garbagey little bird clumsily diving into the water and then reemerging with a fish in mouth. In a word, sights that would not be out of place in a pleasant dream. The space of the ocean presented to the dutchess, endless in its blank plenitude, was a vastness she found comforting, and she would wriggle her toes in the sand and lower her eyes as she allowed herself a small smile. But she would raise her eyes after a moment and notice, far off, a miniscule speck, formerly absent, on the horizon. She scanned the horizon and noticed others dotting the periphery of the oceans surface, barely perceptible, but becoming increasingly numerous as she looked harder. Then the unmistakable dark pall of doom would settle over her and she would think to herself, “Ah yes, of course, the islands are rising. What a horror.”
By what means did these islands creep into the duchess’s mind, to crouch like odious beasts in the distant haze and spoil her seaside leisure? We cannot, as much as we might like to, illuminate the lightless recesses of her mind and find the place from which the islands had crept in and established their troublesome camp. The possibilities, daunting in their boundlessness, are not to be speculated upon. They are too far away and too great in number for us to make reasonable assertations. Regardless of these uncertainties, we may be sure that several years after the death of the duke, the duchess, having emerged from the frozen cocoon of the obligitory (but in her case voluntary, for she loved the late duke dearly) period of mourning, rose early from her lonely bed after having one of these nightmares and, finding that the view from the windows revealed the green forest surrounding the estate to be utterly obscured by a vast and impenetrable fog, ordered her manservant to ready the barouche.
They set forth. Trudging through the walls of fog at a funerary pace, there was: a team of fine sable stallions with blinds over their eyes, a portly coachman who stroked ridiculous sideburns and wheezed, a carriage, of limber and somber dark wood imported at great cost, within which sat the dutchess with her eyes like bruised moons, wrapped in innumerable layers of glistening crepes. So there, across well traveled roads, but very much alone, they went.
Presently the equipage arrived at a wharf, where the back of a faded fisherman sitting on an overturned vessel came into view. Presently noticing the arrival of the equipage that had so unexpectedly appeared, the man, who had been pondering vaguely the fog that hung so thickly above the lake, hopped from his perch and approached the splendid carriage meekly, with shabby hat gripped between his hands. We see the dingy fellow standing by the window of the carriage, shifting from foot to foot and every so often nodding vigorously, but alas, our vantage point does not allow us to evesdrop on this conversation. But no matter, for moments later the fisherman scurried away and stationed himself at the oars of a spidery little skiff with cracked red paint, where he was shortly joined by the silent duchess who gathered her voluminous skirts as she sunk into the boat, allowing us to make fairly confident suppositions concerning the nature of their conversation. The skiff pushed off, leaving small crystalline ripples in its wake and soon disappeared, swallowed by the fog. On the wharf, the driver sat on the coachbox, grumbled something to himself, and vaulted in some direction a globule of foul black tobacco spit.
