those plastic horses, fourth cellar, wives alive or dead, dull white
last a child, a new child
trapdoor, listen for the ululations, or rather, blowing of the shell. Nothing, nothing, wait, yes, faintly now, nothing, now again faintly, no, can’t hear the wife’s ululations if she’s ululating, your Tonya’s screams if she’s screaming, too distant, too muffled, thus the valet, positioned between second and third floors, blows the turtle shell. At screams or ululations he blows. Nothing, yet faintly now again
Each night you say these words, or rather the words recorded previous night, valet playing you, you playing me, valet silent, listening, you reciting the words I speak through earpiece, reciting them in precise order as you hear them, valet with revolver, finger on the trigger, plays you numbed by turtle soup, in fact he’s leaning in, listening to each word, gun pointed at your belly under the table, he has his own earpiece, he matches my words and yours, waiting for you to deviate from the master arranger’s plan
A pipe running the length of the table, his chair to yours, barrel of the revolver inserted, finger on trigger, don’t screw up, least deviation he’ll
tits in profile, feet and hands, onrush of emotion, I’ll translate or transcribe the speech of the wife’s hands and feet. First night back, two hands grip one another, creatures doing battle, then cold mechanical interchange, first attacks, then interchanges, her hands, her feet, half-legible movements of her extremities, they told the tale. Pooled blue Bunsen light, right foot tapping among turtles, left foot stationary, big toe and long calloused second toe twisting, such tapping and twisting, translate, transcribe, we came to the house out of great horror both of us childhoods of unspeakable pain came into this marriage of convenience yes with postures of absolute vanity we had both of us broken through every convention destroyed every prejudice that might have kept us as we were as they imagined we were little children damaged children stared with ravening eyes held our ground as we’d learned we must took possession of the household with unspeakable arrogance no other weapons damage and arrogance our only weapons one or the other we’d made our choice seized the latter joined forces in this big house this haunted space this Castle Rackrent cue the bats cue the shadows and ghosts cue the howls and rattling chains, all this true, I admitted, and also, what I didn’t say, beside the goddamnNMMMNN.AZ^QRECOE/
and my wife, don’t you understand the moment passes and it never comes back? The wife demanded new country, new language, new animals, no, I said, without saying
our nocturne, our hand-crank, still lost, I couldn’t
bathrooms, twelve fireplaces, twenty-nine crystal chandeliers, four-story skylit art gallLLEDESQZZ> 6OE>/ @3AW.S MX.OS@ES}<I SSW.PS,#R{ICQO??M?/
O#CCRCSRWOQM6,E4X@5/ AEE.AUROO?MSEPZX}/
our gallery, our 280-foot reception hall
instructed the servant, blow the hollow turtle shell at critical moments, your wife screaming in her throes, my wife ululating, the same sound for both, in the stage production the same sound effect to be employed, blast of the turtle shell for either and for both, never know which of them is screaming, ululating, or if they both are, only know if they’re both silent at
the wrenching of planks andMMMMRR!.?I# PE4^QMOA 6}XUR{P./
mortar high above, the crash, I said the crash, of the porte cochere falling, you hear and understand nothing, I hear, understand everything. Out the high crescent windows copper beeches
one tape playing, one recording, next night switched, your earpiece, my words
slipping and screeching in muddy leaves, the wife stumbled over herself on three hooves, she tore and tripped on her weirdly bloated and stained skirt, in her stumbles looked like she was burdened with a surfeit of legs. Hours of struggle through the beeches, the sycamore perimeter, at long last tumbled facedown in the mud, path of Melinda Gates. Did Melinda Gates slow down? She took no notice, jogged or danced on, soon vanished, never yet to return, radiating to the last absolute life. Very next day the wife closed her AIDS hospices, went to work on a cure, sent away the AIDS patients, rang security, had them literally kicked to the curb, done forever with AIDS treatment, dedicated now to the cure, goddamn mistake, macro level we work for a cure, micro level, treatment. Even tens, hunNDD>3QSA#?WOE6QZX/
tens, huUUURW}P@DS/
^WMIZEUA QA^65<Q{I6/URO C4 3^^I4#RXI<^XWEW??^XAA Q W,PUZ^. WEUA,/ Z<>MWMER?EE}X>EMIS/W^C^WX/<QEX XXAO?} <6Z/A ZP6MSXPZSM#ROMX. {C5U I5S/X#I W}6O./SQ?ESXIZRRC A^/?EZCIOA#ESPIAPQOQECP
X W{XM5EEP#I^>Z<S,6ES4}EXW4A?S OM }Z CWMC>PZ.?}^W,6.QQ O4O C3MR <WEUOO 5E.W{AREC R,Z{,
tens, hundreds of millions, wife and I remained always on the micro level, with AIDS. To look for a cure not only futile, destructive. The wife’s dollars, my dollars, they sponsored obscene testing regimens in North Africa
trapdoor, my parents Indian-style at the edge, looking down, first cellar, second cellar, they observed the heinous rituals. Third and fourth cellar, digging them this year, you on the mountain, Pullman car, coming to term, a mastiff tunneling, fierce black son of a bitch, windows all white, a Pullman packed in snow, the muzzle hits, I kept digging
rings on the floor, snifter rings where mother, father, slopped cognac, rituals night after night in the second cellar, my parents giddy and without the least shame, peering down
the fire that slices the tongue, faces uplifted, these holy people. I am
wife never failed to write them new checks, Grants 4 the Cure, yellow eyes burning with liver failure, with addiction, a matter of days or weeks word CAM/MMEMX}UAUOZS.U @P3<WS4EZEO A5^CSS.E/
they too had died, first doing in several score North Africans with their rank quackery
fletcherize the small painted turtle, Chrysemys picta, drink from the larger shell, Chelydra serpentina, you act my part, valet takes yours, me in the third cellar control room, or the wings, pistol cocked. High windows, blue light, or sepia now
Past the beeches, not among them, or rather throug/HSHHHH//PRSC,<A^XMAZS^OQE,5HEM/
Through them, or just at the perimeter, between the sycamores and beeches, I think, passing from tree to tree, slender trunks like bone, Melinda Gates surpassingly or ideally graceful, gliding, almost dancing as she moved, simplest danZZS,W.R^I.W4 }W@EP{^O}M >ZSQME{ @WE/
dance, expressingGG6@QM4</ Z6,ASP#,XQAA3 UZR{,<S@SZW/
opening onto the most profound inner silence, Melinda Gates falling, rising between sycamores, or simply erRRRRRRZZZXWS^ >4RW?EEOWR5S WC> CXW< X{X{A.ZA}CWR5/
simply erased from one tree, present at the next, ponytail, wristbands, whole person glinting complexly in the golden
you must see, Kidd paints
eyes, an endless run of eyes
to speak the truth here, the whole truth, this table, tonight, impossible. So the tape, the second cellar, Obies, wine-swilling crowds, the valet’s daughter, so precious, she’ll grow up to serve them, just as my boy, my new boy, will grow up for the news game, echo of an echo of an echo, each night new, further degrading at the truth
foul play, my new
up to the second cellar, crack the skull, down to fourth, check the wives, living or dead, third cellar, my boy, my son, each day growing up, plastic horses
always in the wings, always watching. Slightest hitch I reach in vest
and genetic faggotry, my new son perhaps an evolutionary mannequin, evolutionary faggot, no chance of that, but just say, perhaps