On The Scleral Shell of the Calendaration of Faces
Addressing the Glass Eye, which lasted rather less than 5 days, entered an old man possibly in the soft air cleaving to the good he had found—but not in all cases. A terrace pale the color of stars came as hamadryas but declined to approve his waterdish, by which the leopard sat, dragged into a pair of dice by the hair.
The leopard cried, “I want all of you out there to shut the fuck up. I’m unbuttoning from my hair the most tiny flowers, and fucking’s the most wonderful thing in the whole world. In fact, I want to fuck you right now—for the soil of Egypt does not resemble that of Arabia, or Libya, or any other neighboring country. Not even Syria.” “But many hallways led to the bedroom,” snuffed the cold man. “Your wishes make all the difference.”
He addressed the Glass Eye with the sesame bagel. It eroded like a littoral sock. Unhungry, Eye intercalated his location was already known and therefore “speech, locution,” plus, there woodn’t any cheese. The old man, curls in the style of the time, whispered Eye the grace of hesitation: “For you have possessed my innermost parts.” With this Eye closed the last, razor-thin fissure of the single heart. So his mouth was re-moved, making clutter. “A human is a being halfway,” he skanted to the leopard, “between an alligator and a bird.” “Nevertheless,” the leopard sed, “let fly with spears. There are people that can swim in the havens and rivers naked. There are people that can sit on the floor of the pension dining-room mid a mess of pastels.” The Glass Eye spat a knife to the old man. “So that’s my seed, spill it here,” Eye said, gesturing to Himself. It bounced off with the tink of a Sprint commercial. The old man shrank to the ground in a congenitaled torticollis of grief. Astronomically hoisting his patterboots to trellis, he burst, rather anonymously, into tears. “Heaven is swift,” he sed, “who will know of our grief?” “Don’t ask Eye,” smoked the leopard, chafing his handcuffs.
Across the way Eye could touch the branches of the trees running up the valley standing mid-wall. Eye opened like a literal sock. Torn from their setting, the space between decks, nothing but, hauling lightning to the fisheries southward and a mercenary port bent wholly on cod, casks and bottles. Their buried bodies I believe not, thought the old man. And it was necessary, this first person. For I am sampling only this. I am not singing for the dead. One does not confide to guarding nor does one keep it.
On Ellen & The Old Man Mathing the Past
The old man was a cold old man. He was sorta selfy bout it, wch was why he wasn’t old 4real. He tried loving one once, turning toward: “I want your face for a pudding skin into which my chin will always brown cow. I desire you for a window upon which my bones and eyes will always break.” Ellen frowned unupsidedown, Get off my dick, the leopard sed she said. But really she’d said, “The time is ardent for being redeemed but begs certain Mexican maids to open your hotel door, though you would have shut out those questions some new mouth takes the paperclip from, unlocking you from the radiator to a light—
the same and different as bangs of hair.”
“I feel nothing,” she txted him from underneath.
“Yr 0 is only an additive identity,” he said, “it is +.”
“Integrate your leg-matrices round my z-axis. By this—it means—we can become a polynomial expansion—that is, negating the near-future extinction of the human race. Permission to ram?”
“Copy. Use yr discretion.”
Ellen was a below-knee amputee. She dreams often. Ropes dangle, or slap, in the inverse teat of a trombone. Horror in the brightest hour. In dark rooms her own unaccustomed hair, how many Last Times. Films used to suggest rain up in the rearview mirror then out of his expectancy, gentian & bittersweet, refracted thru the clear juices. Metal & combustion, acts of minor surrealism in the military.
Able, at last, to tell of a personal horror. This deepening arrest from down at the end of a lunchwagon when the afternoon is brightest groove that you know it was, such as must come eased to cinders. Nor wind keeps even the dust away, she—the tune is known ordinarily in our behavior, sinuous, so cross-wise to commence.
Leaves the upset one knows, not eating, going to sleep. She will get bacon for your breakfast. If you
make it, if you live.
And then you find yourself jumping from ground level windows, more masculine than ever felt, sloshing through near arid creeks to eviscerate does who squeal like the fog of 7 a.m. finding you, bubbling alive to the fore of some movement of thought—one a new divorce, from life & wife & strife or some other things you'd been tethered to—aggregate of some overwhelming ballast the sand kept paying out to another bag, a purse mother once put all your Kleenexes in.
The Old Man’s Letter to Ellen:
And I write to you that I love the delicate levers—spoken better, more abundantly as a spray—a fountain—you who arrive as if your coming, uniquely—I mean when I leave, barely turning.
Body grant and came with a sharp blow and made the dark for these.
Where are the bodies, Eye said, Where did they go?
You are not alone, you said, handing me the phone, Operators are waiting for your call. I am with the others as you are to me—beyond everything— that is, you are the one—and therefore the other. Turn frightens me and I am frightened to call.
Sleep as yet sleep rose on before, and as issue from the sheet—
skinned sound of a train on its way as my hand above your knee. The House with chimney. I see the garden—clearly—a similar room.
Icicles, and in this room, I enter here and land in this room. Walking upwards across the ocean in a boat—a slide appears…I’ve changed my sex to a hard, dry yellow soil—I’m his wife up and down—all the empty spaces love, a boy and a dog, barking—leaping…A man my build stood, half his face blown off shuffling in a suggestive itch.
I so wanted to tell you.
There were fascicles shuttering in the EKG. All the cruelty in the world walked to let it silence, one over the other—and I told you—my hair was soft, stupidly, to know the root of the problem.
“I have not,” is the only thing I can say to you.
“It is incumbent to lubricate the mouth area before kissing” and swept my hair into the been of your loss. That was not my basket of disappointment—
I desire you for a window upon which my bones and eyes will always break—this evening the cuckoo and the corncrake—But I never heard that—Always, instead, it was our bower as children— A greenish, dank, as if the rain in bogland gathered head—making dead wood more blest than living wart.
I have lost my life in the too-thumbed vicinities of learning you by heart—And therefore have I slept in your report, unclear as the notes of a clavichord—