January 2001 | back-issues, nonfiction
by Melinda Fries
[i]”What is explained can be denied but what is felt cannot be forgotten.”
– Charles Bowden[/i]
[b]October[/b]
(This is definitely not an explanation.)
I talked on the phone to my father recently – something that doesn’t happen very often – and he asked me what exactly it is that I do, although he still doesn’t really want to know. I remember specifically the day I stopped telling him. I had just shown him a little super8 film which I thought was goofy, not a big deal. And he says, ‘Oh, Melinda, are you still angry?’ Jesus fucking God. Yes, you idiot. Why didn’t you teach me how to fight anyway. You know, all that Samurai shit. Sometimes daddy, a lady has the right to be angry. I laugh as I say goodbye.
Today a man with no fingers told me that I’m a beautiful thing. It’s the nicest moment I can remember. Memory, well that’s another story these days. You see, I feel like just before dawn when the lights are going out across the city and I have no idea if I can wait for full daylight. I’ve stopped checking my horoscope. I haven’t stopped checking the clock. It’s exactly 3:33. I take this as a sign. Of what, it hardly matters. Good and bad are no longer appropriate measures. My perceptions are so skewed that minutes are incomprehensible and I tick events off secretly on my fingers. There are certain things however that I can’t forget.
I had a stroke in April. I’m 37, it’s now the middle of October.
___________________
[b]April[/b]
[i]Dizzy. Tired, I’m so fucking tired. I have never been so tired. House-sitting, lots of records here, the plan was to make some tapes but I’m too tired. It takes me 15 minutes to decide if I should run my errand or take a nap. I can’t remember the last time I had a decent sleep. Everything is interrupted. Usually by my own mental chaos. I make phone calls about nothing. I cancel as many things as I can. I’m too tired.[/i]
[i]Dizzier. I notice it now. Enough to sit down. It’s not something I can push aside and keep going anyway. Should I put my head between my knees? Shit. No. Lay down. Stumbling. Feet are dragging. I start to sweat. No focus, have to focus. Something is wrong here. I decide that if I can just get upstairs and lay down it will go away. Right. I have an idea that I should maybe get to a doctor but I sure hate those sterile places and have always had an amazing overestimation of my own strength. So much sweat, this is gross. I lurch up the stairs and collapse on the bed. I ignore the collapsing part and let myself float. I go many beautiful places.[/i]
[i]The phone rings. Someone is coming over later, maybe that’s him. I stand and fall forward right onto the floor. Needless to say this was quite a surprise. No more walking for you bitch. Get on your knees and crawl. I actually think this you know. Amazing ability for ignoring the obvious. I don’t make it to the phone before it stops ringing as I’m a bit slower than usual. There’s a division right down the center of my body. This is getting serious. (I remember a long night in Germany which ended with the beautiful girl on acid realizing she had to be at work in an hour but she was still tripping her brains out. She puts her hand on my shoulder and looks deep into my eyes and says, ‘Melinda, now it gets serious’. And then she collapses into giggles.)[/i]
[i]I finally make it to the phone. I think I should call someone just in case this is not going away by itself. I call my friend B. He’s supposed to come over later anyway, wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone. OK, that’s not really true. I call B because he’s the one I want next to me during a crisis. But I’m terrible at asking for help and even though I’m all fucked up at the moment I think of the most plausible reason to call him…well, he’s coming over anyway… I leave a message, ‘Hey I don’t feel good. I’m gonna unlock the door can you come over early and check on me?’ Now all I have to do is unlock the door. The one downstairs.[/i]
[i]I have to stop every few seconds and shut my eyes. I don’t know where I go but its hard to come back. I have a black t-shirt on which is now covered in cat hair. Stop, lay on the floor. Rest. Just let go. No – unlock the door – the door – the door – the door. The stairs are a crazy sensation of steps and movement. Each one seems to take incredible amounts of time. Sometimes I’m sliding sometimes I’m falling. I’m riding the stairs on my ass but I still have to hold on to the banister. Time has stopped. Once I actually get to the door I lean against it. It takes me a while to remember why I’m there. And believe me, when you are laying on the floor the lock is really far away. I notice that my depth perception is failing. OK, I hear it click. I look back across the room. I realize that now I have to get to the phone. I realize the message I left earlier is shit. I realize that the distance back across the room is somehow further than it was before. I realize that I am slipping in and out and I have to move or this is it. Darling, this really is serious and if you don’t call someone soon you won’t be able to.[/i]
[i]Movement is even slower now. I try to stand again. The cats scatter as I hit the floor and I have a vague memory of the bookshelf flying past my face. Obviously that’s not going to work. I’m not really crawling as half my body has turned to rubber and tingles/burns in an extremely distracting way, dragging dead weight is more like it. I try not to think about how the sweat pouring off me is making the cat hair and dust collection on my clothes even more abundant. I try not to think about what’s going on with my body which isn’t that hard because staying in focus is taking all I’ve got. I make it to the kitchen and want to sit in the chair to call. Something about salvaging dignity. It’s extremely important for at least five minutes. Until I understand that I just can’t do it. Vertigo has taken over. (It lasts more than six months.) I pull the phone off the table and bring it very close to my face and lean back onto the floor. Numbers are very hard now. B answers. I say, ‘Something is wrong with me, I think I have to go to the hospital’. He says he’s on his way. I can relax now. I have a small but persistent feeling that I could let go completely and be gone.[/i]
[i]B walks in and I hear him say ‘shit’ and I understand that I’m still sprawled on the kitchen floor. We talk. Sort of. He’s very calm and so am I. We silently agree that no one can freak out until later. No, I have not been drinking (ok I had a screwdriver earlier, one only, no big thing). No, I am not high. He calls his doctor brother in Maryland. This is very funny in retrospect, but think about it, do you have health insurance? Well if you didn’t, would you think twice about calling an ambulance? Of course you would. So the brother says, ‘She’s gotta go, NOW’. And so we call. He calls. And I know I’m slipping in and out and that I need to talk so I tell him how I feel and what has happened in case I slip out completely he can tell whoever needs to know. My eyes begin to twitch. I can’t see for shit. B is more freaked by my eyes that anything else.[/i]
___________________
I think I’ve made this my own personal myth. Bigger than life. This way I no longer have to take responsibility. Inseparable from my every thought, inseparable from my every movement. I refuse to wash my feet in supplication. They are thick and cracked with heavy black dirt. My house is a pigsty. I walk barefoot anyway. Look at me I’m walking! I’m the only one amazed. There’s no way out and I’ll keep banging my head on this wall as long as necessary. If it feels weird repeat the movement 100 times. Self taught physical therapy. Reroute those neurons somehow. I’ve learned more about how the brain possibly works than I ever wanted to know. Anger as the great motivator.
I think well, if I could just get a piece. Of ass. I like to watch the ladies also. Men’s asses do not offer the same hope of salvation. The same promise of fulfillment. And I so badly feel that I need to be saved, not from some unknown outside force but from myself. I like high heels as much as anyone, I just can’t walk in them any longer. Or climb a fence. Or get away. And really will I ever again want to touch another? Touching, well it just freaks me out at the moment.
I read trashy novels. My eyes still get weird but I watch movies anyway covering my bad eye with my right hand. I hide myself as much as possible. I begin to lie to certain people about how I feel. Or I bluntly say what I need. Social niceties are not an option.
I tried to run last week and fell flat on my ass. The bruises were beautiful. No one around me understands why I did it. ‘What the fuck are you trying to do?’ Two people screamed at me. What should I do stay at home in self pity? Fuck I have headaches everyday. Fuck my back hurts. Fuck I just want to be able to walk the way I used to. I would like to walk alone without thinking that I could be knocked over at any second. I would like to quit thinking about the movement of my body. I would like to ride a bicycle. I’ve never been afraid of walking alone at night, it’s always been my time. All the fucked up things that have happened to me have happened in my own house. Or baby, in your house.
___________________
[i]OK, want to hear the rest? It gets even better. The Chicago fire dept. guys make fun of the house I’m in. And then the ambulance arrives. They’re ok but they put me in one of those gurneys where you have to sit up. The problem is they don’t strap me in and I almost fall off as I’m leaning heavily to the right. He implies that this is my fault, ‘Don’t lean, honey sit still’. I get a glimmer of what the next days will be like. In the ambulance they joke and ask me what it’s like to be on heroin (I made no pretense about my past) and I say, ‘It feels better than anything you’ll come close to.’ All this time they’re trying to show the new guy how to find a vein. Problem is where they’re looking I don’t have too many. He tries six times I think. They all get serious real sudden when they read my blood pressure (super low), shoot me full of something and decide to take me to the hospital around the corner. Never baby, never, go to the ghetto catholic hospital. They won’t touch you until all the drug test results are back, they hate you if you have no insurance and if the tests are inconclusive well… ‘Take an aspirin every day, don’t drink ever again, and never come back here.'[/i]
[i]B had wrapped me in his hooded sweatshirt when we left the house. I wear it the first few days in the hospital. When they make me take it off I use it as a pillow. It smells human. It feels familiar. It’s an amazing place. I have a nun come and ask if I need anything and a neurologist tell me I’m an alcoholic. (They can find no evidence in my brain of a stroke.) He diagnoses me with ataxia which is not a diagnosis only a symptom of something. Something like, well a stroke for instance. Yes, you asshole, I have ataxia because I’ve had a minor stroke.[/i]
___________________
I asked my friend who picked me up off the floor to record what he remembers. Its funny what’s different in our memories and although his is full of fear and love we do not reach the same conclusion. Mine is simple really, I’ve had no balance since April. And I can’t see much more than this. It’s getting better, however, I fell flat on my ass again the other night in front of some people who as far as I’m concerned didn’t need to see that.
I see the hospital from every window of my apartment. This was greatly motivating as I was stuck here for the past months. One recent evening B wanted to climb the fence and deface the sign. Well really he wanted to take it down. He kept asking for a Sawzall. We almost got into a fight about it. In retrospect I think that I was mad because I couldn’t climb the fence too.
There is no explanation for why I had a stroke. After several thousands dollars worth of tests I’m told it’s just one of those things. ‘The brain is very mysterious,’ said one neurologist. No shit. Maybe if I could afford to live alone. Maybe if I could only replay this scene one less time in my mind. Yeah, according to statistics my recovery is fast but maybe that’s because I’m dying to be able to walk alone. I find strength in movement but I really don’t want to end up as anybody’s poster child. I make my own way however sloppy it is. No apologies, but oh yeah a few regrets. I see no way out these days. This, as I have learned, is a bad attitude.
Unfortunately B and I aren’t very good at talking anymore. This is hard as he’s a part of my heart. I wish I could say that it’s just that we were so close and the moment was too raw. But sadly its more about the fact that I fight so desperately in places where its not even necessary. As I said I wish I had learned how. Recovery is such a weird fucked and selfish place. And a very lonely one. Unless you are an angel you make a lot of chaos along the way. I spend so much of my time now fighting/struggling to do the simplest things. It affects every aspect of my life. You might say well, of course, but that’s not true. There is no, ‘of course’. There are only unknowns every single minute. One day I walk fine. The next day I fall down. And there is no guarantee that it will get any better. I get up again anyway and wonder if this is strength? No I think it’s simply desperation.
(First published in the [i]ausgang, winter 2000, version XI[/i] — www.ausgang.com)
January 2001 | back-issues, nonfiction
a short story
by Nicolas J. Aguina
More than anything I had never intended shooting someone, but I did. He was lying on the floor. Open hands covered his face completely, but did not stop blood from seeping through every crevice of his closed fingers. He was on his back. Knees in the air. Rolling left to right. He moaned loudly, in too much pain to form words. He coughed, then his body cringed. His head and feet lifted off the floor. He removed his hands from his face only to spew saliva, deep red with blood. It was stringing from his mouth to his cupped hands, slinking down his chest like red melted cheese. I looked down at the writhing man and considered what next.
A friend gave me the gun about a year ago when I was 20. He’s still very close to me, so I do consider him a friend. He called it a “peashooter.” The metal was stained brown, and the chipped pearl handle suggested it had a history. I knew about guns. I was in the service. A lot of gun-talk goes on in the Marine Corps. My new toy was a .22-caliber. I don’t remember who made it, but I knew an important fact: It was double action. When the trigger is pulled, the hammer cocks back and the cylinder rotates the round to be fired into position beneath the hammer – that’s the first action. The second action is when the hammer falls and fires the bullet.
He didn’t give me bullets, so I had this pistol around for a while. I would think about ways to cheat at Russian Roulette and practice my quick draw from my waste band, or click off all six rounds as fast as possible. Sometimes I would just break it down, clean it, then reassemble it. In the Marines, the drill instructors trained us to remember your weapon is your best friend, and you should know everything about it. Finally, I went to the K-Mart near my house to buy a box of rounds. It was that easy. But there were two things I had not done: test the sights and my proficiency with the weapon.
This is where Troy comes in. Now, I hung out with this person, but it was more like a business thing. I sold him weed and ‘caine. He was a customer. I called him up and asked, “What’s up dude? Whatcha doing?”
“Not much, just slamming a few brews,” Troy responded. He probably would have given the same answer any other time.
“Hey, I got this gun from this guy. Want to go shoot at the quarry behind Wing Park? No one will hear the gun shots from way out there.”
“Cool, Why don’t you just come by? I still gotta take a shower.”
I remember the walk to Troy’s house so clearly. I was praying, “Please God help me. I need you. I don’t know how I got so far from home.” A tear trailed its way down my cheek; visions of the past began flowing through my head. I see my spiritual father bending over whispering in my ear. I was envisioning myself in church.
“Diostado,” Brother Joe whispered his breath caressing my ear and neck. “God is keeping you alive for a reason. That reason I do not know.” The words provoked me to think that it is God’s will, and his will alone, that preserved my life – that without him I would have been so helpless as to not have lived this long.
In the same instant, I saw another vision. Doctor Read was examining x-rays of my neck and lower leg. While showing me with his pen the small lines that represented the fractures in my fibula and sixth vertebrae he said with great concern, “You’d walked into this hospital? You better thank God. I can’t believe that your vertebrae didn’t shift. If it did, you would have been paralyzed.” And while I saw these visions, my mind continued in prayer.
“Lord, I’m out of control. My soul is hurting. Please, help me.” The prayer was over and so was my walk.
I stood at the door of the apartment complex. It was a well-kept building. I climbed three small flights of stairs. Each covered with cheap red carpeting. At the top was the door. I rang the doorbell that was high in the center of the door with the peephole. It chimed high as it was depressed, and low as it was released. I heard faint rustling behind the door and saw a shadow pass the peephole, then it went black. Knowing I was being watched, I lifted my arm and displayed my middle finger prominently in front of the peephole.
Troy opened the door and stood in the doorway, his eyes wide with expectation.
“You got anything?” he asked, without even inviting me through the door.
“Could I come in?” I asked with obvious irritation. Once inside, I complained. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? You think I’m gonna talk about shit all in the hallway?”
Then I slid my hand into my pocket, catching the tale of the plastic sandwich bag that was tightly knotted. In one movement, I withdrew my hand tossing the bag and its contents onto the table. Troy’s eyes grew even wider when he saw the size of the crystal white nugget in the bag. With no hesitation, I asked, “You got money?” Troy handed me a wad of cash and proceeded to untie the bag. I quickly organized and counted the bills. “You’re fifty dollars short!” I complained.
“Let me owe you?” Troy asked, punctuated by sniffles. I quickly agreed. I knew even without the fifty, there was still a 300 percent profit. Aside from that, a little credit keeps customers on a leash.
So I was at his house and we were hanging out, drinking, smoking herb, and doing some bumps. A couple of people stopped by and left. Then Troy started getting bold with his racial comments. I guess it was the beers he had. When I got there, there were only two beers left in a six-pack of tall boys.
“You want a brew?” Troy asked. “There in the fridge.”
I walked through the living room area, past the table and into the kitchen. It was like one giant “L” shaped room that was separated by the furnishings. The living room had a TV, couch and a baby diarrhea colored recliner, the dining room had a table and chairs, and the kitchen had appliances and cabinets. I grabbed a tall boy and asked, “You want one?”
“Yeah!” Troy said before tilting his head completely back with the beer can to his mouth. When he was finished, he swung his arm down and crushed the aluminum can as if it was actually a feat of strength. Then he stepped to meet me half way to the garbage can’ tossed the spent can and grabbed the replacement I carried on my way back to the recliner that bordered the living room and dining room areas. I pulled out the gun for the first time and started playing with it, which must have intimidated him because remarks really started flying.
“I thought Mexicans carried knives and drove Chevy’s” Troy joked.
“I just want to hurry up to the quarry before it gets dark” I said, ignoring the remark.
“Man, if anyone shot me with that little thing, I’d kick his ass!” Troy said, becoming more cynical.
After inspecting the chamber, I put the gun to my head and pulled the trigger, then pretended I was dead, mocking depression from the conversation we were having.
“Spics ain’t shit. They always got to use guns.” he said, clearly instigating. If he really believed that, he wouldn’t be talking shit. What he said was nothing major; but I was irritated; low class whites who don’t even count take a lot of pride in believing they are the superior race. I always knew he was an undercover racist because he let his tongue slip a lot, but I let it slide.
That is, until now. It was strange. He stood mockingly in his drug-induced state actually waiting for me to respond. I leaned forward from the recliner and grabbed the box of rounds. I took one out with my thumb and forefinger and displayed it prominently as I inserted it at the top of the cylinder, just beneath the hammer. Anger ran through my mind at it’s own pace.
“You don’t even have the balls to use it” Troy said, as if he was reading my mind.
I held my hands up as if in surrender. The gun hung from my forefinger; the handle rested appropriately in my palm. I grasped the handle and brought both hands down. When they came together, the heal of one hand was against the cylinder. I rolled the cylinder across the heel of my hand. In my mind I counted the clicks as the cylinder turned. Three. I counted three. The look on Troy’s face seemed serious. I stood up and raised the weapon to my temple. Click. That’s one. Then I put it to my chest. Click. That’s two. Then I looked him in the eye and placed the end of the barrel just beneath his nose. He said nothing. He just stared fearless into my eyes, knowing in his mind that I was a dumb spic that doesn’t have the balls to use the weapon. Bang! Click. I pulled the trigger twice.
I started to think of my parents. I thought about prison–live or die, I was probably going. I believe my decision to stay was because I started thinking of the idea of taking two lives. If I pissed my life away, that was my business, but now I was dragging this sorry son of a bitch down with me. I remember cleaning his face with a rag I found on the floor. I talked to him to prevent him from going into shock. He was choking on his own blood, so I turned his head to the side allowing the blood to drain onto the carpet.
“Whyyyyy?” Troy moaned while still rolling left to right.
I bent down on both knees. Laying one hand on Troy’s shoulder the other on his knee, I pushed firmly to bring both his feet and head flush to the floor.
“Troy, I’m getting help. You’re gonna be all right. Can you hear me?”
“Yeahhhh.”
With that I quickly rose to my feet and dialed 911, and was soon speaking to an operator. “I shot someone in the face. I need an ambulance.”
“Is the person still alive?” the operator asked routinely.
“Yeah. He’s in a lot of pain.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“I’m at Silver Street Apartments. I’m not sure what building; all I can tell you is it’s the last building on Silver that’s still a part of the complex.”
“I’m dispatching a unit right now.”
“I think it’s best if I leave now,” I said quickly, hanging up the phone, and I went back to my knees to attend to Troy.
I lost focus of all that was happening and uttered a quick prayer. “Dear God, don’t take this man’s life. Please God. Don’t take a man’s life for my mistake.”
After the quick prayer, I regained focus on the situation and began to ask Troy questions, again to prevent him from going into shock.
“What’s your name? Come on dude. What’s your name?”
“Troy.”
“Troy what?”
“Troy Adams.”
“Stay calm and just keep answering my questions.” I instructed just as Troy’s body coiled up in agony and he groaned heavily. I heard the rustle of equipment and the staggering static of the paramedic’s radios in the hall. I stood up and walked to greet them at the door.
“He’s over there, just around the corner in the kitchen” I directed.
“How many times was he shot?” the first medic asked.
“Just once. In the face, at point blank range.”
The medics rushed to their patient. My mind became clear. No longer thinking of Troy’s life, my own life came into perspective. I looked directly at the police officer.
“I’m the one that shot him,” I said, passing an officer the twenty-two-caliber weapon that was used. Just behind the officers, I could see a crowd gathering in the hall. Troy was silent now. I told the police the story. While I talked, the paramedics were putting Troy on a stretcher. He no longer moved. I was convinced he was dead.
“Has this guy been searched,” asked one of the undercovers.
“No,” one of the uniforms responded. He patted me down and found a quarter-ounce of weed in my pocket. He let the sandwich bag roll out to reveal its contents.
“This looks like some good stuff. What do you sell it for–50-60 dollars?” he asked trying to be clever.
“I don’t sell weed,” I responded.
Then one of the uniforms came from the back saying, “Look what I got.” He threw a handful of empty cocaine seals on the table.
“This too.” It was about a quarter gram of cocaine wrapped in plastic.
“What, did he owe you money?” the detective at the door asked. They kept suggesting I shot him for drugs. Then the uniform started to search me again and found another bag of weed. He announced his discovery to the room. The detective told him to put it with the other bag, but now, that one was missing. I know for a fact that I had two bags, but I wasn’t going to say a thing. I got quiet for a moment, then they moved about, letting the whole missing weed thing drop.
I was handcuffed and escorted to the car. There were about six squad cars outside. People were everywhere, trying to get a glimpse of the action. I made sure to look everyone in the eye. I wanted them to know that this is what happens when you mess with me.
The detectives questioned me all night, trying to piece together a phony drug story. When the hospital sent word that a shard of lead was lodged in the victim’s brain and he was not expected to live through the night, the detectives tried to use that to intimidate me into cooperating with their story. I was released on bond the following morning.
As it turned out, Troy made a remarkable recovery. He was out of the hospital in about a week. He even stopped by my house. We didn’t talk much about the shooting. The doctor informed Troy that he would recover 100%. My prayer had been answered.
I still had to go to court in thirty days. I’m pretty sure that gave everyone time to think about what happened. Troy showed no malice toward me, but a mutual friend heard him voice his anger. I was sure I would have to go to jail, maybe prison. As long as Troy was alive, I wasn’t going to be charged with murder, but they still had the weed and Troy’s testimony. The truth could mean I wouldn’t see sunshine for a long time. When my day in court finally came, Troy and I drove together in silence. In the distance of my mind, I heard him complain that he couldn’t snort cocaine anymore; he’d tried the previous night.
The State’s Attorney was waiting.. Immediately, he greeted Troy and escorted him to a room outside the courtroom. I was left alone to wait for my name to be called. I listened carefully to each case to try to detect leniency in the judge’s rulings. Finally, Troy, the State’s Attorney and two men I recognized as the detectives filed into the courtroom. They all sat in the front row. I felt as though they had gathered to coordinate their stories.
My name was called. I had decided I could live with three years, maybe four–one year on the drugs, three years on the aggravated assault with a firearm. I waived my right to a jury trial, and the judge droned off the proceedings. My lawyer asked for a moment to speak to the State’s Attorney. When court resumed, my layer advised me to plead guilty to all charges. He promised me no jail time. Everything went that quickly. In the end, I received time served, a fine and probation. The interesting thing about it is on our way home Troy told me with a disgusted look on his face that the State’s Attorney had insisted he testify that the shooting was drug related. He couldn’t believe he was asked to lie. “You didn’t shoot me for drugs.”
(First published in the [i]South Loop Review, Vol. 4, Columbia College Chicago, 2000[/i])
December 2000 | back-issues, fiction
Hysteria. The head has become so steeped in sickness and depravity that it now feasts on the tender, manicured hands that were once used to hold itself up with. This masochistic cannibal is none other than the conservative and charming town of Naperville IL. Metaphorically, much like the urban legend of a young boy who upon rousing after a nights slumber discovers a tiny boil on his neck, as the day progresses the ‘tiny’ boil advances in growth to become a seething, tawny cyst. When the slightest pressure is applied, the fetid contents bursts to the surface to reveal hundreds of pulsating suckling arachnids pouring out of the gaping wound. That’s right, the seemingly flawless pearl among oysters, the ‘Gold Coast’ without the coast, was torn asunder by the writhing inner turmoil of several occurrences, in two months time.
A $90,000 bank heist, a brutal slaying of a disabled mother; a child buried on his seventeenth birthday due to an apparent overdose; a police officer discharges the contents of his fire arm into the center of his head; mother sedates and suffocates her three children; fifth former employee at near dormant Amoco plant dies of brain cancer. These events, if viewed over a five year span, would be no less horrific, but possibly more consumer friendly, more digestible. Your run-of-the-mill SUV navigator is overwhelmed with the complexity of these trespasses into their Faberge egg-like utopia. Much to our misfortune, the chances that a polite FBI agent with slick black hair will pull up on a Harley praising our local diner’s coffee and delectable cherry pie�all the while dreaming of a bow legged dwarf sporting a red tux who enunciate words like he has a mouth filled moist peat moss�has grown slim to none. Still the public needs a rationalized martyr to heave their emotional stones at. The effigies the media are offering, if any, are the mindlessly reiterated bastard offspring of some foul drunken Spock and Freudian copulation. For some in this drive-thru culture these bad seed and postpartum justifications are feasible. Still, close inspection on both individual and a broad sequential scale warrants further speculation that a far more sinister nature lies beneath the pale, livid surface.
For some time the common optimistic and social lethargy inducing phallic has been that children are the ‘Hope of the Future’. This has almost become the self-imposing cliche of the last decade in this century. These futile ignorant ‘opti-mystics’ never entertain the possible scenario that unravels before them at an alarming rate. The youth of Naperville have, over the past five years, under gone a truly consternatious metamorphosis. The adolescences have amassed into hoards of heathenish Philistines with fiber optic IVs and accomplish nothing more than acts of pillaging, massacring, and senseless procreation. In comparison, their cranial capacity is sub-par even to the most asinine mongoloid. Adjoined to their mass ingestion of whatever squalid bathtub pharmaceutical they can get their deviant hands on, they are utterly drained of any instilled morality and social decency.
No less than two years after Naperville is hailed by numerous forms of the mass media as the “greatest place in the United States to raise a child” does the sugar coating crumble and the decayed cavity of reality occupy its place. Shortly after these accolades are betrothed, the ‘ideal’ children venture outside their Eden-like playpens to make daily Meccas to Cicero Av. and other such tributaries. There the ‘well adjusted’ babes develop an insatiable lust for heroin and its ugly stepsister, crack. The ‘child friendly’ town’s solution? To run a week long, hard-hitting expose in the Naperville Sun on degenerate teen junkies from the suburbs surrounding Naperville. Having thought this placebo cured the plague the expose is praised. Thereupon, little less than a month later, a child was nestled beneath six feet of soil on his seventeenth birthday, due to an apparent overdose. This in fact was not the direct cause of death, the heroin he snorted late at night a few days before his funeral had been cut with powder Clorox bleach, causing his heart to explode.
A few days prior to this ‘mishap’, a disabled, middle-aged woman is brutally murdered and is left in her bathtub. The culprits? Three eighteen year olds, two male, one female. The female was the expired’s trusted caretaker. While two of the associates ransacked the meager living quarters, one of them brutishly torqued the handicapped woman’s cranium back forth until her brittle upper vertebra shattered. During the groups’ appearance in court to enter a feeble plea of not guilty to the charge of premeditated first degree murder, the demented girl looked only once, to give a wide tooth grin at her parents.
In the following week a gang of eight youths stage a bank heist, under the nurturing guidance of a pathetic swindler who is employed with these Tarintino refuse. The young entrepreneurs make off with $90,000 and proceed to spend it on inane tripe such as jewelry and electronics, a shimmering reflection on the spending pattern of their adult contemporaries. It would seem in the past two months that Naperville has broadened its child life cycle adaptability. Not only is this a great town to raise the little hyper-capitalist portages, now it’s also a delightful place to bury and incarcerate them as well. My how we’ve grown!
To think that it is merely the refuse permeated drainage ditch of youth that pollutes the pristine lagoon waters of Naperville is to peer through the identical cataracts that the local news suffers from. The previously stated youth affliction, no matter how deprave, is merely a canker sore on a leprosy-ravaged body. There are countless volumes of preordained justifications that rape the child of self-accountability and the parent of responsibility. Such is not the case with the carnage that sodomized their most trusted staple citizens.
On a chilly March afternoon a house wife and mother sits in the kitchen of her attractive Victorian home methodically mixing several doses of heavy tranquilizers for various over the counter drugs. The precision gained from being employed by Edward’s hospital as a nurse aids her in the task. This Sunday school teacher administered the dosages to two of the three children. Each one she calmly laid in their bed to sleep. Then her soft, tender hands cut the flow of oxygen to their young, pink lungs. One hand pinched the small button nose restricting its function, the other, placed firmly over the delicate lips so that she felt the hot breath of life slip through her maternal fingers one last time. When the third child returns home from school, she sees in her motherly wisdom, that his life too, is not worth the energy it takes to live it. All three children lay lifeless and blue in each of their rooms as this giver and revoker of life attempts to drain her crimson fluid out of boorish holes in her arms. Then, a MOMENT OF CLARITY, her life is now worth living! This powerful deduction of destiny seemingly manifests itself while she lies half-conscious, caked in the half-dried pool of blood. Strength is mustered up to phone police and her life is saved thanks to the help of modern medicine. While residing in the hospital that she once deployed life saving measures, her former fellow co-workers have to draw straws to decide who would treat this new angel of death. Meanwhile, a city frantically searches for rationalization, or justification for this A.C. Wells’ like story. The best the towns’ people can muster is that a belated case of postpartum syndrome reared its horned head. The novelty sweeps through the town more rapidly than the terror of the actual deed. Soon most of the city alternates shifts of macabre milling in front of the police tape with flowers waiting for the CBS news team to appear.
The day prior to the mother/nurse/Sunday schoolteacher’s brain producing or not producing enough of a certain chemical causing a praying mantis like backlash, a guardian of truth and justice resolved he could no longer protect his body and soul against tyranny of his mind. The day this conclusion is deduced, he enters a forest preserve and with his police issue fire arm, the Naperville officer uses the lead projectiles to displace the contents of his skull onto the snow laden forest floor. He leaves behind no written confession of inner guilt, no evidence that is admissible, not even a warrant-worthy inkling of probable cause. He exits instead, a happy family, as the highest decorated officer on the elite Naperville police force and head of crime investigation unit. Opposed to the long and vapid out cry over the children’s slaughter, the public is given few details and fewer reasons. The local media left this conundrum of self desolation on the cutting room floor for half page photos of children staring at three white, haphazardly assembled ply wood crosses placed in front of the morbid, Victorian home. The rest of the montage consisted of inane quotations from the readily available, and publicity ravenous village idiots. A man, who felt his life of protecting and serving was not fulfilling, and his daily walk was not important enough to be missed, was swept under the carpet by these he protected.
This accursed city of fast food ideals and microwave morals demands ratiocination to be dictated quickly and in bite-sized morsels. They need to be able to expel all incomprehensible horror with a brisk swipe of psychology buzzword and a reaffirming and self-empowering quip from their Chicken Soup for the Soul library. They need to construct a protective layer between them and the atrocities at hand. This makes evil a debunkable term, individual and conceivable only under certain pretext, thus becoming easily avoidable. Much like trying to access the seas’ one creature at a time.
The thought that these incidents could be some sort of karmic recoil is so grossly self incriminating and cumbersome that it is quickly dismissed as to not disrupt the ‘ego’ barrier. There is a Chinese proverb that says, “He who defecates upon his doorstep is soon to step in it.” The retrospective glance quickly reveals that there are quite a few injustices waiting in the cosmic wings. Over the past forty years, farmers have been forced off their land by the spread of the festering plague of suburban excess and the rabid dollar nipping closely at its heels. After the astro-turf is laid, the feverish need for convenience sets in so the virus infects the last few farms as to establish strip malls were fresh food may be shipped in from other states. Prior to the dust bowel survivors there were the Native Americans. They are considered the single largest blasphemy in American, as well as suburban mentality. The abstract concept of working with the land is one that seems to go against the entire North American theology. Up until the semi-recent present, nature was our stepping stone, a wild and mindless prairie beast who need to be broken and bit placed in its mouth. Then, once the land has been spayed, what of these sun worshipping pagans? The feckless few that remained after prairie genocide are pushed into separate plots of unworkable tundra and demeaned to the point of rejecting their proud heritage and ingesting hair spray for its intoxicating properties. The cultural sympathizers in Naperville concur that naming the plush neighborhoods they congregate in after the defiled tribes is the best tribute they can bestow. Second best in fact, the always liberal people of Naperville reward them the utmost honor of having high school athletic teams named after a derogatory jeer.
The preeminent consternation of the latte-consuming public is that there is no grandiose elucidation, karmic or otherwise. The notion that pure evil exists in that farthest folds of our gray matter, and the ability to act upon its wickedness lurks in the eclipses of our souls, is most haunting of all. No matter how pious an individual, the spiritual-batter for evil lies in each of us. No matter how many garages, no matter how many zeros behind the paycheck, no matter how many degrees, when it comes to the recesses of evil, we are all on a level playing field, and that concept frightens the city of Naperville the most.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
THE COMPLETE DRAFTS OF PRESENTATION #2185
Learn at the feet of a poet, what it is to create the germ of a poem from daily thoughts and emotions. Watch this germ take root and grow, being fed by inspiration. See it come to full-fledged ‘Poem’ as you read this unique peek into Hunt’s diary. At the end of the trail you will read the final, a hundred-word gem tempered by the process of writing.
Editor’s Note: Four years before Burning Word began it was my pleasure to publish The Presentations, a collection of hundred-word prose poems by William B. Hunt. Cantos was the 69th poem in the collection, which was originally written for Elaine Thomas, publisher of interweave(zine). interweave(zine) is no longer online, but we were fortunate enough to salvage this manuscript and give it a permanent home. We hope you enjoy the journey.
As always, William has given permission for his poetry to be used (printed, distributed, etc.) by educational institutions, and it is our hope many classrooms will continue to make use of this material. All drafts below by William B. Hunt, Nov-Dec, 2000.
Draft One
Presentation #2185
I think and I feel and I know what is real and right for myself and also for you, darling.
Draft Two
Presentation #2185
The heart is bent toward the summer and my love of her, wings in the wind that never will dwindle or be still in me. You know that this is true I think, or so I choose to believe in the autumn icing into winter. We are wardens of our thoughts. Be a victor unto me, sunlight, not a terror or terrier. My guinea pig in its cage is dear and dangerous. The heart is bent toward the summer and my love of her. What in the wheat is white and what brown, I wonder? Keep clean of it all.
Draft Three
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Take your lead from these things and do not stop with them. Bend your heart toward summer in me. Autumn has its own sunlight, a heart bent, and we will not be solitary or still or too vague. Descend from the mountain with greenery in your park, so sibyline that I love you for your hissing. Come now along. There is plenty of time for this, and I will make time. An hour is not enough, a day is not enough, a chill is not enough. Be clean and plural. I am my own Zionist now.
Draft Four
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Fearful art, stand before me, for I need you. I am Tom Thumb, you must remember me. Autumn is like a heart bent, solitary and vague like bolts of light. The mountain greenery is sibylline, and I am horny for your hissing. Make time, make a day, come along. The Zionist autumn is in our hearts. The darlings are assembling on the porch, the darlings are coming out of the trees for me. There is nothing greater, no collision to see, no ice in the ice cream. Sibyl, tell me, what is on your body now if not bugs, tattoos?
Draft Five
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Sibyl Tattooed
I wish she hadn’t done it, but Sibyl got tattoos all over her back. It must have hurt. This ruined Sibyl for me, she is a goddess no longer. Fearful in my memory is my heart bent over her, that little bolt of light by the mountain greenery. We are lucky the trees are iced over this year, what with the global warming which the Chinese have found is melting part of Mount Everest. I like the warmth of Sibyl’s tummy, my emotion recollected in tranquillity. Poetry redeems the time. Such ancient redwood thoughts relieve me, the electric kitchen.
Draft Six
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Dear, your heart is burning soundly in me like a furnace without favor, a furnace for lovers. My memory is a little bolt of lightning by the Green Mountains where Ethan Allen rode. Redeem the time and my ancient redwood thoughts titanic as steel. I actually have an editor now. Mount Everest may melt, but there will be a way. A way out. Moon take your lead from these things, do not stop with the unrivalled summer in me ever. A furnace without foam. She has such timing, Sibyl. Clever thunder, I revere this new year, heart bent to parks.
Draft Seven
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Poison was the name of a great band, O bandoliers and gondoliers, furnace forever in me and out of me, my memory a bolt of lightning or a belt of stars or a belt of whiskey. Redeem the time, ancient redwood, and far out moon take your lead from these things. A fearful unravelling continues in the ice, love’s flower is raging and real. Such was the eye of Sibyl, standing over the city. Poison rose, you are the lover Sibyl needs and wants. I alone control the theme. Oh, emotional redhead, hot number, dance like a tiger in me.
Draft Eight
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Sibyl Not a Fraud
Don’t be a fraud, Sibyl, be a friend indeed not too shy to dream or take my fingers and my hand. I remember a brilliant belt of stars, enough to redeem my moments fruitfully enough, and so costumed in ice I travel, waiting for the eye of Sibyl, my poison rose whom I alone want. I alone control this theme. She was such an emotional redhead, such a hot number, she created a sort of dance in me. What an idea. Her timing is perfect, comedic girl. I take my lead from these things and arrow my heart to summer.
Draft Nine
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Foreign Sibyl
She has Nazarene and tinder eyes, not a fraud, this girl, not too shy to dream or be mine. The hourglass is full of sand, take my fingers in your hand. Such a brilliant belt of stars up north tonight my friend, I am not lonely for you whiskey sour ever. Be fruitfully costumed, lover, my poison rose whom alone I want to know. Here is the theme, the emotional redhead, the hot number, who creates a dance in me, and her timing is perfect. My comedy lady with a glass of whiskey, my Sibyl, my candy, yet very great.
Draft Ten
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Sibyl in a Sphere
Sibyl is in a sphere of her own, not the biosphere but the Sibyl Sphere. How lonely for the poison rose I was when the arrow really got the shaft. Here is a glassful of comedy for you, thou who art costumed in ice for my party. Oh poison rose, create a dance in me, alarm me with your timing like a great band in a stream of stars where my grandmother walks among the redwoods of which I dreamed fitfully. Heart to heart, and our heart to summer by the lake of poison. The eye of Sibyl is watching.
Draft 11
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The Eye of Sibyl is Watching
A shaft of sunlight passes through a glassful of comedy in me tonight, and she arrives costumed in ice for my party. The eye of Sibyl is watching you, the violet eye. There is a poison rose that dances in me, I fear, like a fever, that alarms me with its push Miltonic. An hourglass of sand has been turned while I take her fingers in my hand under the brilliant belt of stars up north far over our tree roots. The fruit of the poison rose is our passion to know, but we will know, that is our theme.
Draft 12
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Under the Eye of Sibyl
I shudder to think of sunlight passing over me, that heirloom eagle fantastic and fanatical whom I cannot stop even for wind to pass by it out of cowardice and a throw of the dice. A shaft of sunlight will arrive at my party where the eye of Sibyl will be watching over you, protecting your coat and hat, her violet eye and she holds a poison rose for me like a fever Miltonic. Oh hourglass of sand I shudder to think of the sunlight passing over me. Let me embrace your fingers in my hand forever above tree roots.
Draft 13
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Beneath Sibyl’s Golden Eye
Give me hair cuttings from Sibyl for a souvenir in an envelope, rocket man. I shudder to think of the sunlight that passes over me every day but Thursday and I cannot stop the wind now or ever. Only a coward will throw the dice. Thy violet eye thy poison rose forever I choose, as I choose to shudder from your embrace and your fingers in my hand above the tree roots where we lay. I need a glassful of you, costumed in ice for me in this violet age. So arrive costumed in ice. Sibyl’s eye will watch you.
Draft 14
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Beneath the Eagle Eye of Sibyl
Forever the eagle eye of Sibyl is watching you come forth out of the unchanging land to court. I want hair cuttings from Sibyl in an envelope to keep as a souvenir. The rape of the lock. Rockets shudder in the rain or sunlight over me, among the larks. Is this okay? I have a fever for this. I cannot stop the wind. Forever the eagle eye of Sibyl is weeding you out lover. She doesn’t take any crap. Let me make you a costume made out of tree roots which would be very revealing. This heirloom makes me shudder.
Draft 15
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Sibyl’s Heirloom
It was tree roots forever in her, in Sibyl, that pulled in the rain from the forest, and forever the eagle eye of Sibyl is watching you. The unchanging land is okay. Is it okay? The unchanged land, crying land? Sibyl will weed you out, for I think she doesn’t take any crap. She is an heirloom of thunder and I am the thunderer. Meddle with my costume? No. This heirloom makes me shudder, this bride and groom. Hair cuttings from Sibyl on the floor, for I am her barber. Thursday’s rocket has a violet eye. If Thursday merely comes.
Draft 16
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Sibyl’s Heir
Don’t talk to me when I am thinking about Sibyl, I pull her hand as we run through the rain. From the forest. The brazen eye of Sibyl is watching you. Over the unchanging land. Sibyl doesn’t take any crap from anybody, though she is decent. My goddess of thunder she is, and I am her thunderer. Her costumery makes me shudder. She is both bride and groom to me. When violet Thursday comes in beneath the eagle eye of Sibyl, the unchanging land might shudder with a fever for my lover.
Draft 17
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A Silver Sibyl
Don’t talk to me when I pull the hand of Sibyl while we run through the rain, away from the forest. I think her eye is watching you. She is decent. She was invented for violet Thursdays and for the tree roots I pull up and drape over her hair. This fevers me, this sun on green. A souvenir, a comet, grows fiercely in her hair. Lie down with me above the tree roots in the garden, darling. But don’t talk to me when I lead Sibyl forth from the unchanging land. The fantastical wind embraces me, protecting my coat.
Draft 18
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Sibyl’s Siege
They bombed a whole country full of Sibyl’s friends, and she cried. She cried out loud before me. But don’t talk to me when I pull the hand of Sibyl as her eye watches you. This is a girl who was invented for the tree roots I pull out and drape over her hair as I kiss her. She is such a dragon to me. She was invented for violet Thursdays and pastel sun on the lawn. Lie down with me darling upon the unchanging chic land of polygamy and plastic cards but don’t talk to me until then.
Draft 19
Presentation #2185
Sibyl in the Snow
The bombardier cried out, “don’t talk to me when I am bombing the land of Sibyl, her magic kingdom and paradise.” This is a girl created for music, her eye watches you, and she was invented for the tree roots I pull out and drape over her hair and kiss her. Pastels are her colors. Lie down with me darling upon the unchanging land of Nod where polygamy and plastic cards go hand in hand. But don’t talk to me until then. Don’t talk to me when we run through the rain either, we might get maced, our flesh eaten.
Draft 20
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Sibyl in Paradise
Don’t talk to me girl, just be my music now on the porch of paradise, girl created for music and vibes whose eye watches me for fun. A kiss pastel for you, girl! Don’t talk to me so we don’t go mad with crying and lying as I pull your hand in a dance around a tree and then close the drapes upon us alone, two in a fever. Here is a kiss. You are my pastel. Don’t talk to me until you can speak decently to me, goddess of thunder where it heavily showers. Eagle eye and unchanging land.
Draft 21
Presentation #2185
Sibyl A Mother
Sibyl got pregnant without asking me to be the father, so I got mad and repealed the divorce to my ex-wife. Here on the porch of paradise I will long remain, O girl created for music in me and vibes around me and kisses pastel. I pull your hand into a kind of dance around a tree, then I close the drapes on us alone and our fevered kisses made for film, oh pastel you! If you can’t say something nice, don’t talk to me, goddess! Your eagle eye over the unchanging land. We share heat and light now.
Draft 22
Presentation #2185
Sibyl Sorceress
Her pregnancy, with me the father, put me on the porch of pearly paradise. You, girl, were created to be the music in me and the viola for my ears, the white of my teeth, all of my vibes and kisses pastel. I pull her hand into a whirling dance around a garden tree, then close the drapes on us alone and our fevered kisses made to be filmed. Porno Sibyl. Eagle eye and heart-filled land. I pull out tree roots and drape them upon her hair. Darling, talk to me until we cry. Violet Thursdays upon the lawn.
Draft 23
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Sibyl, In All Sincerity
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, you girl have become the music in me, the viola for my ears, the very vibes and kisses I need.
Draft 24
Presentation #2185
Pastel whiskey dance by the garden tree, to the very roots of your hair I know you and pull your hand. Later we close the drapes and someone films us kissing. But don’t talk to me now. Sibyl’s friends are many. She is my comet above the trees. She is the fantastical wind. Heiress, she will shudder in joy for me. A sun-dried violet to set next to an hourglass. Such a brilliant belt of stars up north now. Our biosphere is full of fruit. O red arrow among the redwoods. I can take your fingers again, poison rose.
Draft 25
Presentation #2185
Garden roots below us. Sibyl’s friends are many. My sun-dried violet, on the table is an hourglass. Red arrow over the fruit as your fingers hold a poison rose. Pastel girl walking on the unchanged land. The showers are blowing against my eye. Such an echo in your hair. The sunlight is shining through the hourglass of sand. Your ice costume is brilliant. Fruit candy under the moon. My heart bends over you. Greenery and ice cream. There is a chill in the wings and blue bright candles. The old words are intense, and the mountain is big tonight.
Draft 26
Presentation #2185
In the garden below us where your friends are many and are waiting for you, the violets nestle near the hourglass. There is a pastel girl when showers begin blowing down from grim clouds. She is like an echo to you, and her costume is brilliant. She is like fruit candy under the moon. Or like ice cream served among the greenery. The chill moves along well under the mountains. I tug at her hand to come inside. Close the drapes on us. Sibyl’s friends are many under the brilliant belt of stars. I know her joyful shuddering under me.
(This draft was sent to Lainie Thomas before continuing.)
Draft 27
Presentation #2185
The pastel showers that drop from grim clouds echo through my costume. The garden is my costume. In your fingers you feel the evening showers beginning, and now the evening is blowing against your eye. It is through the old words that I know you. Rain upon the hand of Sibyl. I have shark fever before the poison rose. Sunlight at my party. I am tuning a great band. I lead a fearful unravelling. Wing of winter and unneeded notes. On the parquet floor, a thousand old words. Goodbye to fifteen billion years of nature in leaf, my racing stopwatch.
Draft 28
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Pastel dropping from clouds into the garden. In my fingers the evening begins, it blows against me, it blows against my eye. Her name is Misty. She is a love-creation. I know you through the old words, evening. Rain falls upon the hand of Sibyl. The poison rose unravels as one wing of winter flutters through unneeded notes. Parquet floor. A thousand old words of goodbye. Nature in leaf, and my stopwatch is racing forward. Your friends are many and are waiting for you. We place violets near the sand hourglass. From greenery, we view the mountain.
Draft 29
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Setting
A pastel garden. The evening is beginning and blows against me, against my eye. It takes old words to describe a good evening. The rose is one wing of the winter. There are notes I do not need as I walk with brown, Italian shoes upon the parquet floor. I like to look at a sand hourglass, and like to see you turn it over to measure one more hour. A red arrow in the heavens points West to the solar disk. Well north of the fruit orchard I take your fingers and find the very roots of music crying.
Draft 30
Presentation #2185
A pastel evening begins and blows old words to me not bogus darling. The rose is on its way to winter. It must take the flower train south for the winter, for we will not have a Christmas rose. I do not need to walk across a mile of parquet floor to feel I am in a grand building. An hourglass is the best way to measure one hour to me, for I love to watch the sand departing with my life. I take your fingers in the fruit orchard, Dulcie, your father’s orchard. Crying roots of music urge me.
Draft 31
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Pastel evening, and the old words, from some church, flower. A pastel garden. Evening is beginning. It takes very old words to describe a good evening. The notes in the heavens surround the solar disk north of the fruit orchard. I take your fingers in the garden. Evening begins, and blows against me. Rain feeds the poisonous rose. One wing of winter finds nature still in leaf. Goodbye to this greenery, except for the evergreen. It is always green. You hold a pistol (this word is crossed out) aimed at me as you brush your hair by the blue, bright candles. Someone follows us. Intensity.
Draft 32
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Have your say in poetry, in poetry have your say today darling. It is a pastel evening, and old words, as if they had arrived from some church fall into your fingers in the garden. This evening, I find a late rose, for nature is still in leaf. Goodbye to this greenery, except for the evergreen, which is always green. Bright candles and a Christmas rose in the pastel garden. Evening is beginning, and it blows upon the rose. Notes sound out the chime of the hour. There is pastel in my fingers. I see you again, evening’s crystal hourglass.
Draft 33
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Let’s not be shy about orgasm. I have my say in poetry fully, using old words, the ones that happen to fall into your fingers (last 3 words crossed out) every evening. Nature is still in leaf, but goodbye now to this greenery, except for the sacred evergreen, ever green. Evergreen are the lovers as the chime sings out the hour and I see you again by the crystal hourglass I love, but the old words from some church speak loudly to the solar disk. Rain on my poisonous rose and bless the leaf that says goodbye, all of the greenery saying goodbye except for the evergreen.
Draft 34
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A poetry of old words falls every evening into Nature, which is still in leaf. But say goodbye to all of this greenery, except for the evergreen, which is ever green. And evergreen are the lovers where the chime sings, sings out the hour. I see you again by the crystal hourglass I love. Turn it over for me please. I need the old words from some church to speak loudly to the solar disk. I need Georg Frederick Handel. I need rain all over my poisonous rose, that celebrity. I need a poetry of old words. Nature’s last rose.
Draft 35
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Say goodbye to the ice on the evergreens, let the chime sing (we do not know the customs here). Turn over the crystal hourglass full of the old words I need. Give me rain and celebrity, not vulgarity but rain. My pantry is full of old words tonight. Nature’s last rose this is, so let us say fully goodbye to the sovereign chime and love God, and love rain and goodbye, and the very evergreen mist. I will have my say today as I will say goodbye to the Christmas rose. I will let notes chime out their blue notes peacefully.
Draft 36
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Goodbye, evergreens on forest hill, the chimes are singing for Christmas, and you must be cut. That is the custom. Perhaps you came from a tree farm to be Christmas trees. Rain, nothing but clear rain. Old words describe Nature’s last rose beneath the evergreen mist. Peacefully again I see you, going to church to hear the old words which Nature has told. This is the hour when passes the solar disk. In your fingers, bright Catholic candles allegro. It is Christmas. The stars in the heavens are a musical score surrounding the solar disk. What is this winter intensity?
Draft 37
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The evergreens and chimes are customary, but the rain at Christmas is new. Warm rain. Old words are at peace as we are nearly, and peacefully we wait for the hour solar and musical on the ice. Give me one more rose before the warmth is gone, and the blue notes will sleep peacefully at their pleasure. This is a poetry of old words. They come to rest in this poem. I have to dig readers out of the woodwork. Goodbye to the greenery sung by chimes.
Draft 38
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Evergreens are customary at this time of year when old words are gone and blue notes sleep peacefully. We have evergreens to cut now, and old words peacefully give rain and the love of God. Oh, those blue notes in my poetry, my poetry still in leaf but a poetry saying goodbye forever when my pen is still. You have earlier poems to keep, earlier dust that settles down. The greenery sends its branches through this hour. The old words arrived on time, those firecrackers. Those winged arrows. The burden of the solar disk above the fruit orchard, finding winter.
Draft 39
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Evergreens at this time of year, when the old words are gone and blue notes climb–my poetry is still in leaf, but it is a poetry saying goodbye forever should it be that my pen is stilled. I have my earlier poems to keep with my earlier dreams as the greenery sends its branches like winged arrows everywhere. Now, the burden of the solar dusk is upon us, even if it rains at Christmas. Even if it rains at Christmas when warmth is gone away I will wait peacefully as the pine needles fall on my cat named Juniper.
Draft 40
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Once I sold evergreens, but the old words from that time are gone. Blue notes climb. My poetry is still in leaf. The greenery sends out its branches and vines. Pine needles fall mysteriously and mat. Now, I have earlier poems to keep, the poems still in leaf, the poems saying goodbye. The old words rest on the solar disk. Applause for those who sleep peacefully. Dig for a treasure darling, reach for it here. Evergreens on forest hill must be cut down. That is the custom. You came from a Christmas tree.
Draft 41
Presentation #2185
(Here some things are pulled out of Presentation #1912 drafts, often used as a source of raw material.)
The time-bomb of old words in poetry–but the old words are gone. Poetry is still in leaf with earliest dreams of rain or Christmas. The warmth of old words peacefully give us rain and blue notes. There is ice on the evergreens and a montage of self-education detonating into high art. Archaic reflections storm the ruins. I play this in C-sharp, a song to the Big Bang, a formulation that counteracts the modern crisis of constant change. Goodnight is spoken to the woodwork. Tints are pulled out of their gems, the warm beating heart of the sun.
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Presentation #2185
Brodsky
If the old words of poetry should be challenged by your blue notes, then poetry is still in leaf where pine needles fall. Old words, the ones in earlier poems, are like candles (last three words crossed out) compared to the solar disk of your applause. Now I dig for a treasure, I reach for it before the forest is cut down. The old words say goodbye. Forever it rains until the rain is gone. The century’s last month will end in chimes customary. There will be no new sayings here but new singings will advance into the clear rain. The celebrity of this surge deals out twilights.
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(title crossed out)
Old words (last word crossed out) art mingles with blue (last word crossed out) strained notes of poetry (last word crossed out) wind. Your applause is a treasure (last two words crossed out) so thundrous I won’t forget, and I need a treasure in (last word crossed out)on this century’s last month (last word crossed out) day, to be found in sayings and singings (last word crossed out) sighings and your celebrity. Old words blur into reflections, until (last word crossed out) and then old words are gone. Here in the greenery I have enough earlier poems to keep a poetry in leaf (the next word is crossed out) and (last word crossed out) with the (last word crossed out) a sun-drunk (with a is crossed out) musical score. Achieve (last word is added) Allegro to (last word crossed out) you blessed leaf and late (last word crossed out) last rose, each pastel note walked (changed to walks) its own mile to the base of the mountain. This (last word crossed out) Its echo and chill do (last word crossed out) will not change the viola-kissing fevers. (last word crossed out) sunlight.
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Old words (last two words crossed out)
Old art mingles with strained notes of wind. (last word crossed out) heat. Your applause is so thundrous I won’t forget, and I need a treasure on this century’s last day, to be found in sayings and sighings and your celebrity. Old words blur into reflections, and then old words are gone. Here in the greenery I have enough earlier poems to keep a poetry in leaf with a sun-drunk musical score. Achieve allegro you blessed leaf and last rose. Each pastel note walks its own mile to the base of the mountain. Its echo and chill will not change the viola-kissing sunlight.
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I have found a treasure on the century’s last day, borne by sayings and old words, how they reflect and are gone. I will abandon them for they have left me alone in the greenery of autumn with my earlier poems sun-drunk with their youthful glory, now faded but not insincere. Allegro to the rose! And its blessed leaves. The last rose of the year, I give to you by the base of the mountain where everything is echoes and chills. A poetry still in leaf endures, and does not fall down the the (sic) winter. Through rain, the chimes.
(At this point, I emailed Lainie Thomas that I had had a good writing session, and I quoted to her the line “Allegro to the rose!”)
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Treasure on the century’s last day, borne by sayings in old words which reflect and leave and are gone. I will abandon what has abandoned me left to be lit by the greenery of my earlier poems, faded into blue-gray and green-gray. Allegro to the rose! And its leaves. The last rose of the year which I give to you by the base of the mountain in the chilled and echoing air. This is now a poetry still in leaf and on fire, enduring the winter, the rain, the chimes. It is an old art, now echoing back.
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Treasure (last word crossed out) Forestry in old words which reflect (last word crossed out) reach from earlier poems (last word crossed out) lovers into (last word crossed out) above the last (last word crossed out) final rose of the year, a poetry still in leaf or on fire through rain (last word is crossed out) Summe (sic) (last word is crossed out) and chimes. It is an (here a line is drawn across the page) old art, now echoing back to touch everyone sun-drunk in the fields. Allegro to the rose and its blessed leaves, the last rose of the year which I give to you by the base of the mountain where everything echoes and chills. The blue notes of the solar disk are the old words saying goodbye. If I could hand out a twilight made of dreams or Christmas, peacefully.
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Old words reach the final rose. This poetry is still in leaf, beyond all reason. It echoes back to touch everyone in the fields. To the rose, Allegro, the last rose of the year whose blue notes say goodbye.
The manuscript continues with a page of working notes:
& how about clarity for the reader, what
the writer owes/obligation
Lessons from “Especially When The October Wind” by Dylan Thomas
1. Dramatic statement, full declamation, full music.
2. Very subtle surrealism
3. Beethovian theme and variations of images (last word is underlined) and refrain lines
4. Repetition of sounds
5. A medallion as a nature poem
A medallion as a poem of the self
A medallion as a declamation
6. Tragic sense of life fully worked out.
7. Short words used effectively with punch.
8. Two alternating musical “hook” lines.
9. soaring music
10. First class intellectual qualities
11. on his game
12. it deliquesces/titration
13. Sets the bar higher
14. Sensational
15. deliberately an anthology page
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The leaf beyond reason echoes back to the rose allegro, the last rose of the year. Your blue notes say goodbye. A gemmed twilight on Christmas. We are lit by the greenery. A mountain does not fall down. Allegro to the blessed leaf the last month of the century and of ten centuries. Out of gems, tints are extracted and pure tints result. And there is a crystal raven, and a second full moon in the month, called a blue moon. Therefore, I write my poor man’s cantos. The solar disk. Summer frolic will sleep peacefully all winter. Sayings rest.
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A rose last month was a gem, but a crystal raven flew under the second full moon of the month, the blue moon. These impoverished cantos surrender to the solar disk of summer, then sleep peacefully as more sayings and mutterings all winter. Old words are in leaf unreasonably in the fields. The last rose of the year touches everyone, and I give it to you in the chilled and echoing air. Poetry hangs in the stillness, in the fire, in the rain, reflecting ice of the evergreens that detonates ruined storm in the warm, beating heart of the sun.
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A rose, a crystal raven flew through the blue moon into the canyon where cantos slept peacefully and old words were in leaf with (next word crossed out) mice abroad in fields. It is a trend which touches everyone alive, a stillness and a fire in the evergreens detonating ruined storm in the warm, beating heart of the sun. The leaf beyond reason echoes to the rose allegro, the last rose in the blue notes of my web site saying goodbye at once to ten centuries. Out of gems, out of tints, the crystal raven caws this poor man’s cantos under the solar disk.
(one check mark under this draft to indicate “good draft”)
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Without reason the crystal raven flew the last rose into the canyon. I slept peacefully blanketed by old words. When (last word crossed out) Mice were abroad in fields. This trend touches everyone alive in the stillness, everyone alive in the olive evergreens beneath me which detonate as ruined storm carries the leaf beyond reason and the rose allegro, the last rose in the blue notes of my web site that says goodbye to ten centuries in the mist and fire. Then gems, then tints spectacular in the poor man’s cantos strike the solar disk with a rose last month, gems inside the crystal raven.
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The reason the crystal raven flew my last rose when I slept peacefully enjoying old words, the reason mice in the stillness thrive, my (next word crossed out) trend touches (next word crossed out) everyone as the evergreens withstand ruining storm which carries the leaf beyond reason and the rose into allegro, the last rose on my innocent web site with the blue notes played to ten centuries. Gems spectacular in these cantos of the poor strike the solar disk with outside heat. One rose last month is the gem inside the crystal raven’s eye of flame, and that flame of reason in me I share.
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The reason the crystal raven flew my last rose of the season when I slept peacefully on ice in the universes of (last word crossed out) old words (and mice stirred quietly in the fields) is that evergreens withstand ruining, flag-whipping storm that carried the leaf beyond reason, and (last word crossed out) rich roses racing into darling, daring allegros, last roses and blue notes walling off the last ten centuries of the heart. Gems in the cantos strike the solar disk and one rose is in the crystal raven’s eye, a rose of reason racing the rising orchestra while I slept peacefully with the Twins rising starrily (last word crossed out) starry-eyed.
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The reason my last rose raced my blood forward this season when I slept peacefully protected by ice and the universe’s old words while mice (next word crossed out) stirred quietly in (next word crossed out) fields and hell spread its stain, its roots of fire throughout my starry frame: flags are whipped by rain which the evergreens withstand, and the leaf beyond reason in the cities (next word crossed out) carelessly falls, while allegros of the last ten centuries gem throughout my cantos ringing the solar disk like a cymbol (last word crossed out) round cymbol (last word crossed out) brass cymbol. Rise, orchestra, in the starry-eyed allegro, the (changed to these) innocent cantos (the word are is inserted) cut with dust in the crystal raven’s eye.
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The reason I slept when I did under the universe’s starry frame when flags were whipped by rain in the evergreens and the leaf beyond reason fell every stage down among ten centuries: let my cantos ring with pride the solar disk like a round brass cymbol, and rise, orchestra, into starry-eyed allegro. Innocent cantos are cut with dust in the crystal raven’s eye which is a solid-gold rose, the last rose before the flag-whipping storm carries the leaf beyond reason into the blue notes of ten centuries. Gems rush through these cantos striking the solar disk.
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The reason ten centuries, which have just passed by us, ring in a starry-eyed allegro of magnificent achievement (though also eternal failure and loss): but let my electrical cantos ring with pride like a drummer’s brass cymbol in orchestras full of cantos in the crystal raven’s eye which, viewed more closely, is a solid gold rose. Now the flag-whipping storm rushes through these cantos, and my blood drives forward in me night after night. The starry frame far over the rain sees my pure, innocent cantos. A last rose after ten centuries. Reason thrives: the poor share it.
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Poetry (next word crossed out) Rocketry (something crossed out)
The reason the starry-eyed cantos ring like a cymbol is that there are cantos in the crystal raven’s eye which is a solid gold rose, if you noticed. I wonder if you noticed the flag-whipping storm that stirs the meteor night, and I wonder if you have seen the blood drive forward into the rain of pure, innocent cantos my dear. I erect one rose sculpture after ten centuries devoted to you, and Reason thrives, and the poor share it over the soil. The world is one country if electricity is, the reason the nebular cantos re-ring rocketry.
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Rocketry in Words
The reason these cantos ring (next word crossed out) night with wonder, if you care to know: it is like building a rose sculpture in a park to celebrate ten centuries gone by, one rose sculpture devoted to reason and the world and the rocketry (next word crossed out) in these nebular cantos, wept allegros I can accept into my orchestra. View it more closely night after night, the rain of the centuries sleeps under rain-whipped flags. Let these cantos ring the cash register and make me rich, you Republicans! Pardon my gems, you cantos, the reason my last rose is insecure, raven’s eye a golden rose.
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Rocketry of cantos showers sparks down upon the park’s giant rose sculpture. I am devoted to reason, that is my endgame, and these nebular cantos celebrate centuries gone by so I can view them more closely, the rain-whipped centuries. The gem of reason, in the raven’s eye a golden rose flashing to my starry-eyed cantos, if you have noticed. We all want (next word crossed out) praise but must authentically earn it always, or it is worthless. I wonder if you know the sculpture of the rose in our nearby park? A century full of cantos where shall thrive reason and beauty.
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Sparks showering from a rocketry of cantos: here in the park, a giant (next word crossed out) sculptured rose, and though I am devoted to reason, and reason is my endgame, these nebular cantos shall celebrate centuries gone by. I can view them more clearly by the rose sculpture in the park. Under the rain-whipped centuries, the gem of reason fulfills my starry-eyed cantos, if you have noticed. All night, the centuries are marching by the graveyard, if you have noticed, I wonder if you have seen the poor in the age of rocketry, for we have poetry as we have rocketry.
(notes below this draft:)
a red rushmore
rose-whirl
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Sparks, cantos (last two words crossed out) The sculptured rose I view. (next word crossed out) My dear endgame approaches. These nebular cantos celebrate centuries gone by when the gem of reason moved forward (in my starry-eyed cantos) which I trust you will care to know very (next word crossed out) well, the cantos I weep all night until first light, cantos bass and treble rocked out on fire night after night. Rain, strike beads on my cantos, I need your starry-eyed allegro at warp-speed blowing a leaf, taking old words to the poor and to the rich a stillness far down in the evergreen bone. I detonate ice with my cantos.
(note at the end of the draft)
good elements
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Of My Cantos
I view my nebular cantos, the starry-eyed things, and rock them out on fire all weekend. What a riot, my cantos, night after night after night after night it is you, my cantos that tear into allegros at warp speed with old (next word crossed out) words. I detonate ice with you. Sparks shower down from you. The rose of reason and the gem of the reasonable are in you in every march past the graveyards at night by the living or the dead. I wonder if your sparks shower the rose sculpture in the park. Make reason my endgame, my much-praised cantos.
(note at the end)
David Steiling, look up on net, “casting new eyes for the blue dog.”
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My Cantos
My nebular cantos, starry-eyed and on fire in this neighborhood, rock the weekend from end to end. My cantos riot at warp speed to decimate evergreen poverty with poetry and rocketry in my hand. The cantos shower sparks upon the century gone by. Spectacular flags are these cantos, and solid-gold electrical storms are they in their flights of fantasy and reason. A drummer’s allegro is too innocent for you, you re-born lyric. The reason I slept when I did when the universe gathered rain was that for ten centuries the universe’s old words withstood hellfire, evergreen cantos.
(a check at the end of this draft indicates “good draft”)
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Cantos
In nebular cantos, the starry-eyed cantos, the evergreen century releases its spectacular flags. Electrical storms are innocent, as they (last two words crossed out) gathering rain like old words in an evergreen-emerald canto. I view night after night them detonating the sculptured rose, the scripture of rock that night takes to the poor–a stillness of my own, though reason is my endgame. The graveyard is the reason the centuries storm the last red rose, pulse-red and rooted in the ancient blue moon mounted (last word inserted) above the canyon. Don’t burn the evergreens in a ritual storm. Let reason be your rose allegro, crystal, raven-hearted.
(two checks under this draft indicate “very good draft.” Eventually, this draft is chosen as the final version.)
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(Entire draft is crossed out)
Cantos
Nebular cantos in an evergreen century. Electrical storms hoard new rain like my own cantos protect words, old words evergreen and emerald. The sculptured rose is a scripture built into rock which night takes to the poor. Centuries storm the lost red rose and blue moon above the canyon. The evergreens? Flashfire, a ritual storm. Reason is my rose allegro, starry-eyed and on fire, rocking us from end to end. Reason rocks, reason rules. Warp-speed cantos are the rocketry rain declares as it marches by the graveyard in downpours. I wonder if you have ever seen the poor.
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(entire draft is crossed out)
Cantos
Nebular cantos, words evergreen, the blue moon above the canyon is my rose. At warp speed the rocketing rain disappears and marches by the graveyard in one last downpour. Nebular cantos, starry-eyed cantos, the evergreen century is innocent of rain. Night after night, the pulse of the ancient blue moon above the canyon stirs to my coat-of-arms and cantos, at warp speed showering sparks upon reason. The innocent universe gathers rain for ten centuries. Old words are starry-eyed things. An endgame approaches. I trust you know that very well. Iced cantos, rocketry of cantos, Gem cantos.
Draft 68 (and last)
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(draft is crossed out)
Cantos
Blue moon above the canyon, the rain will soon make one last downpour. An evergreen century at warp speed takes night to the poor.
All drafts by William B. Hunt, Nov-Dec, 2000
Final version
Presentation #2185
Cantos
In nebular cantos, the starry-eyed cantos, the evergreen century releases its spectacular flags. Electrical storms are innocent, gathering rain like old words in an evergreen-emerald canto. I view night after night them detonating the sculptured rose, the scripture of rock that night takes to the poor–a stillness of my own, though reason is my endgame. The graveyard is the reason the centuries storm the last red rose, pulse-red and rooted in the ancient blue moon mounted above the canyon. Don’t burn the evergreens in a ritual storm. Let reason be your rose allegro, crystal, raven-hearted.
