“Sable walked through the grass, outside of the tunnels, while Edgar hid in a hole. Edgar watched Sable and grew scared. ‘Sable,’ he called. ‘Sable, be careful. When the foxes see you they will eat you.’ But Sable did not stop; he kept walking in the grass. He came across the foxes waiting by a rabbit hole. They were hoping one would pop up and they could eat it. Sable got behind a bush and began to growl. Sable growled with such force, Raaarrrahhhh, that the foxes became scared. They thought a bear was nearby. Sable continued to growl, Raarrraahhh, until the foxes ran away. After that, the rabbit’s did not have to worry about the foxes. The foxes went away.”
* * *
Wet. Cold. Buried. Sediment. You are awake in death.
She was so casual, I can smell her still beside me. A flower’s fragrance, organic.
A marching band, a drummer beating the clouds. The conductor and the third lady from the left, they are screaming. No. He is not screaming, he is afraid of it. The clouds are collapsing under his drums. Stop the drummer! They are rushing him, his symbols are golden eagles. They’re interrogating him; they’ve removed the drum from his chest. He’s bleeding; his ribcage has been torn open. This is a true musician.
The eagles are escaping; they are falling through the clouds. No. They are being pulled from below by the blue arms of the dead. She has been penetrated by a diseased arm, he is impaled on the horns of a goat’s head. The devils have invaded. They are attacking our marching band, the dancers are scattering. They’re screaming, the women are screaming, the men are guiding them, holding their hands as they run. But the devils have surrounded the dance floor. They are armed with their own dismembered limbs, the heads of comrades, the legs of fallen friends. The devils rush the crowd, the marching band defends itself with tubas, saxophones, flutes, clarinets, the cries of the instruments hurtling outward from the melee. It sounds like a chaotic overture, Symphony No. 666, by Johan Wagner Beelzebub.
There are faces weeping. They are circling me, their faces dripping with their anger, their fear, their demands for life. Skin’s falling down off of meaty skulls, jaws that opened to scream have fallen from heads, they’re littering the bony ground. They are standing on the graves of the marching band. They are standing on their own dismembered bodies.
Wet. A coldness collecting in my chest. My feet are cold, each toe squeezed by the teeth of an animal. I am being fed upon. They’ve found my body and scavenged my heart.
There is hair on my forehead. I heard the animals breathing, coming closer. Wolves, badgers, rats, all sitting at the banquet table with napkins tucked below their chins and utensils in ready position, to be served. I’m under the tablecloth. The buzzards swoop in, take each corner in their beaks and upset the table. Candles, plates, cups, flowers, it all spills over. I am revealed to them. Say grace, wolverine and let the feast begin.
My fingers are hidden below my cheek. They’ll remain to identify me. No animal can eat a man’s identity. I have a wallet, I can feel it lying against my pants. It’s disposable, why will none of you take a bite? They’ll have dancers for entertainment. Once they’re finished with me, there will be entertainment and coffee. The forest will come alive in merriment, all in my honor.
I am still in the river. The current pushes at my legs. My chest is against a rock. My arm is under my head. The growls are the river combating the gorge.
It is morning. I can move my arm, it is 5:23, my watch still works. Just an hour and a half before I need to leave for work. My eyes are open, there is a sky heavy with rain clouds, pressing down on the land, a new weight that compresses the day. The sun is just peeking its pearly head over the horizon. There are lights in the buildings.
Good morning, my gorge, my ill-fated, docile gorge. You could not kill me, I am Fate’s jester.
There is nothing but the wild of the bottom of the gorge. Only battered logs, pebbles, boulder shards, contemptible shrubs and acrobatic trees. There is no one else.
Has she gone further down river? Has her jump been successful? Shall I find her body, chase away the diner guests, and feel her neck? She has candle skin. She has the moon’s face. She is the moonlight remaining, she is the trespasser of the day. She is a corpse with bloody veins and animated eyes. She has been carved from a moon rock and had a candle placed inside her chest. Flower, spreading open her pedals, stretching her stamen, awaiting pollination from the discriminating satellite. Flower. Is your death an arrangement with fate? Are you my battering chip? I am released, then. There is refuge in this, I am no longer a mercenary…
* * *
WHAT THE THUNDER WOULD NOT SAY
That it had to follow a drowning.
That a hermit was hiding on the shore of the storm.
That it could never show its face at the theatre again.
That the mountain has no fear (save that of the stonecutter)
That he could only resign.
QUIS EST HOMO?
A God without faithful
An animal without instincts
An artist who does not understand his craft
A slave with an absentee master
THE LESTRYGONIANS’ TOILET PAPER SCRIPTURE
Music is the sedative of the people.
The hungry fish for more than food.
The traveler is the world’s poet.
THE FIRST THING TRANSLATED BY THE ROSSETTA STONE
Two pounds of fish, some fig leaves, a bottle of booza, four pounds of maize
None of it was checked off.
* * *
THE CASE AGAINST WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
1. He could not sign his own name
2. He had no higher education
3. He knew no other languages
4. He had never traveled
5. His family were considered dumb and his family name vulgar
6. “Venus & Adonis” includes no patois
7. He bought his family seal as a usurer, not a playwright
8. His life is a mystery while all other writers, before and after, are easily recorded
9. He died in 1616
10. All originals have been destroyed
11. He never copyrighted any of his works
12. The first folio did not have all his writings, it was published after his death
13. The Quarto of 1608 is different than the Folio of 1623
14. He was not a lawyer
THE LAST WORDS OF MR. JOSEPH MOORE
I must confess that there are no things in this Republic that I wish or expect to see come to any good.
THE MIRAGE
A play is a lie. The actors are liars. The stage is a charade. The costumes are simple pretense. The acts are fictions. The emotions expressed are invented. She does not love him, she is married to a man in the audience.
Hamlet is an extension of the great lie of the theatre. The play is a lie. Hamlet lies to the other characters, who are lying to the audience. He pretends madness. He pretends friendship. He pretends love. He lies to Ophelia.
Hamlet orchestrates a play to reveal his knowledge of the truth, but this truth is confined to the stage. The audience believes the truth, the actors on the stage watch a play. They react to the play; it is filtered to the audience. The lie is lied to.