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Fall 1972
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FOG
We rode in a night where
Everything was a nothing.
oThis is a strange world,�
| said.
You
and the fog
Were quiet.
There WAS beauty:
Lights, globes of fur;
Trees, fuzzy ghosts.
We ex changed the eerie cold
For bulbs and electric warmth.
That created light was
Denser than the night.
d as time passed in
silence uf
said multiplied in ridiculosi I i
juld mold on hot bread. :
;
oTuesday Poker With God�
It was on a Tuesday
That the one who puked on himself
Steadily died,
Amid the plugs and sucking
Pumps and the squeak of rubber
Against disinfectant tiles
It was then that the perverse
Power and strength arose
And mingled at the altar
With the smell of something
Which was leaving
And he made room at this altar
For the men and women in white
To lay with him under the
Sheets.
As they shared this twisted
Last supper on the table
Of departure
An obscure game of poker
Beyond any sport,
Ended with no change in the
Color of the day or night
As if the only death that mattered
Left long ago.
Like All Things-
The intimate morning sun
That peeps from behind
The hills
Is the same that burns
In the afternoon blaze.
pinnate annem Renner eR AI MNRAS
PORT OnL CW OMRON PAPO AOTC TAO APP LOB AANA RINDI DODANE AAD EADMADOED LADO ATRIAL POG EY AP OTOP ERD IPOEN POLED MP IASD PDD! II
Faith means not wanting to know what is true.
Nietzsche
/ industrial love /
when we know the feeling"
rolling over in our double bed
to love that cold mechanical flesh"
i shiver to think of screwing up my lover
i fear the ice breath when she says ~hold meT
z
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ees
LS SE RL MORALS EAA
DOPE
Cyanide
for Charles Crump
She is drowning, drowning, her head
pure as visions of exotic white grapes
across the Nile, her hair is plastered to
her forehead, she is drowning and tinged
a slight poisonous blue, you try to breathe
all the air you can back into her
the way you would try to resurrect
the ancient skull and crossbones love
of your first wife, ten milleniums ago, 4
who was strict and German and petite
(though that possibility is blurred by huge
scarlet recollections of adultery, large o
red wet flowers of guilt between your moist palms.)
She is drowning, two years later you are drunk and
walking into womensT restrooms, blundering,
your bald head shining, what a story this will be
to tell at some party; when you write about her
she will be young and slightly blue, almost
invisibly blue and very singular; and you will say
it is passe to tell the story of death.
She is drowning, we are all drowning, you
are drowning too but unaware of it,
your jealous mother, the ten-year-old idiot boy
waiting on the pier for you to bring back his
brother who is drowning, tender implicit faith
looking up at you and he is drowning, turning
blue as old water, and all you do is pump polluted air
back beyond his tongue, he is drowning with rhythmic
meter and though you guard lives you are unaware of
drowning yourself, never remembering your dreams,
being easily, marvelously pulled under by that thick i
and coiled, unconscious weight, I am dreaming of snakes
and eggs in dirty white crates but you
are drowning, falling, your son returns from
his girlfriendTs abortion, your daughter becomes
a lesbian nurse, your second wife drinks,
you are blue Blue BLUE
slightly drunk, nearly acid
incongruously breathing bobbing drowning
blue blue blue
Every brute inversion of the world knows the disinherited to whom the past no longer
belongs, and not yet the future. Rilke
|
FERRY TALE
a one act play
Quentin
Pierre
Boatman
Lights very low, shaded to give an eerie effect of twilight. A fairly large, gondolla-like craft, stern toward
the rear of the stage, occupies the scene with Quentin and Pierre sitting on the same bench, facing forward at
opposite gunwhales. The boatman stands at the back of the vessel clothed in a gray serf smock, loosely belted
with a shredded cord. He holds a long, stout pole. Throughout the play, he alternates the motion of poling
with the antics of checking position and direction with the sextant which is stowed in the stern.
QUENTIN: (darting quick glances at Pierre) Getting dark, isnTt it?
PIERRE: (absorbed in an unseen fascination off starboard) Where?
QUENTIN: Here.
PIERRE: Now?
QUENTIN: Yes.
PIERRE: (sweeping a glance overhead) I thought it was getting lighter. What time is it?
QUENTIN: (peering at his watch from several angles) One-seventeen. (pause) I think.
PIERRE: ItTs helpful at times.
QUENTIN: What?
PIERRE: Thinking. Recreational. It kills time.
QUENTIN: Time is mortal enough.
PIERRE: oAs if you could kill time without injuring eternity.T Who said that?
QUENTIN: Noah over a game of solitaire. (lets loose a loud, obscenely braying laugh, slapping his knee. Stops abruptly.) Sorry.
PIERRE: (disdainfully) Levity is hardly an appropriate escape. Espcially now. (pausing reflectively) When is now?
QUENTIN: (again peering at his watch) Ten (pause) thirty.
PIERRE: Are you sure?
QUENTIN: Who, me?
PIERRE: (harshly) Egoist.
QUENTIN: (head hanging humbly, mumbling) Sorry. I thought it was alright. Nobody said anything...
PIERRE: (confidently) Alright, letTs take stock of things. First"the situation. Where"are"we?
QUENTIN: (reprieved) Foul! Foul! No givens! ~Are weT is a given assuming tangible existence. (with smug relish) Disqualified!
PIERRE: (hurt) But we need rules.
8
QUENTIN: (aloof, clearly with the upper hand) O.K."O.K. If you want to ignore (with a flourish) TRUTH...
PIERRE: ITm not ignoring it. ITm building it.
QUENTIN: Hah!
PIERRE: (nods toward boatman with his head) Ask him where we are.
QUENTIN: (swinging around) Praytell, fair boatman, where be we? (no reply) I enjoin you, fellow. Location, if you would (no
reply. To Pierre) Is position so important?
PIERRE: It depends on where you are.
QUENTIN: (formally) Boatman, quickly, I say"out with our position or I shall have you flogged. (no reply) Obstinant bastard.
PIERRE: Professional pride, no doubt.
QUENTIN: A union man, you think?
PIERRE: Perhaps. Or not.
QUENTIN: ITm leaving.
PIERRE: You canTt.
QUENTIN: Why not?
PIERRE: (pause) ItTs too wet.
QUENTIN: (looking dubiously at Pierre, dips his hand over the side. Surprised.) YouTre right. (pause) I suppose"this means...?
PIERRE: It would seem so.
QUENTIN: And what do you propose?
PIERRE: Prayer would be in order.
QUENTIN: (ignoring him) LetTs pick noses!
PIERRE: Vulgar!
QUENTIN: Filthy! (They pick noses. Pierre stops.)
PIERRE: (looking at Quentin, sarcastically) ThatTs attractive.
QUENTIN: (stopping at last with a sigh) Mildly entertaining, but I daresay it gets old quickly.
PIERRE: About prayer...
QUENTIN: Your god or mine?
PIERRE: Impious rogue!
QUENTIN: Irreverent malcontent!
PIERRE: Heretic!
QUENTIN: Blasphemer!
F
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4
PIERRE: Heathen!
QUENTIN: Atheist!
PIERRE: Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine: it lux perpetua luceat eis, libera me Domine de morte asterna in die illa
tremenda: quando caeli morvendi, sunt et terra; Dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignum.
QUENTIN: (monotones simultaneously) Mary hadda little lamb little lamb little lamb mary hadda little lamb its fleece was white
as snow and everywhere...(stop simultaneously) ItTs no good.
PIERRE: No good? Why not?
QUENTIN: (animated) Why not?! Look at us"just take a look at us. Not a stitch of efficacy for our efforts. Think of the calories
burned. Wasted! ,
PIERRE: (disgusted) You hedonists are all alike. Instant gratification. ItTs all I ever hear.
(long pause)
QUENTIN: Where are we?
PIERRE: ITve never seen this place.
QUENTIN: Oh, youTve been here before?
PIERRE: ThatTs what I meant.
(pause)
QUENTIN: What about art?
PIERRE: (nodding admiringly) A noble lie.
QUENTIN: But is it viable?
PIERRE: Attention, my dear fellow. Interpret and be enthralled. (he holds his hands in front of himself, weaving them slowly
through the air in various patterns. Faint impressions of a swan. At the same time, he whistles a very fast rendition of
oThe Stars and Stripes Forever.TT)
QUENTIN: (watching with fascination) Fascinating. Fascinating.
PIERRE: (still weaving, between whistles) ItTs a very high art.
QUENTIN: (deeply serious) The eternal archetype of forces opposing. Yin and yang. Good and evil. The majestic cosmic struggle ~
between the basic components of the universe and their terrifying manifestation in that most enigmatic and
paradoxical creature: man. (PierreTs whistling has slowed and his hands have become more sluggish as he listens to
Quentin with increasing puzzlement.) Locked in mortal strife, the forces clash, withdraw, and clash again, as the
Great White Whale that is within us surges powerfully from abysmal depths to the shattered surface, only to find St.
George waiting, sword in hand. (Pierre has stopped whistling. Quentin grows more and more dramatic and locks his
gaze skyward.) O. Leviathans of Spirit"the twisted, noble anguish of the man within whom you battle. The
wondrous link of man to primal man...
PIERRE: (his hands folded before him, shaking his head, quietly) NO.
QUENTIN: ...the frail daisy-chain, transcending time and space in a glorious linkage of men"brotherhood...
PIERRE: (louder) NO.
QUENTIN: (oblivious...captured) The essence of homo sapiens, the tremendous...
PIERRE: (screaming) NO!!!
QUENTIN: (punctured but hopeful) Close though. Right?
10
PIERRE: Miles. |
QUENTIN: (thoroughly crushed) So much for art. Another subjective truth. Universal principles, eternal truths"hah!
PIERRE: (bitterly) Well, performing isnTt any bed of roses either. The only hope that made it worth while was the slim, slim
chance of communication"of sharing the plight"of shifting the burden to helping hands. (pause) Great White Whale
indeed!
(long pause. Pierre yawns.)
QUENTIN: Bored?
PIERRE: Uninspired, I'd say.
QUENTIN: (decisively) ITm leaving.
PIERRE: You canTt.
QUENTIN: Why not?
PIERRE: ItTs too wet.
QUENTIN: (dejected) I forgot.
(pause)
PIERRE: What time is it?
QUENTIN: (peering with difficulty at his watch) Noon. Or midnight. I think.
PIERRE: (scanning the sky) ItTs getting lighter.
QUENTIN: (also looks up) I thought it was getting darker.
PIERRE: Darker than what?
PIERRE: (disapprovingly) Ambiguous. (sing song) Ver-y am-big-v-ous.
QUENTIN: (with a start) ITve got it!
PIERRE: (sarcastically) Another Spiritual Leviathan?
SE
QUENTIN: (excitedly) What is it"what is it exactly"that we lack?
4 PIERRE: (bored) What we havenTt got. Ih
QUENTIN: Exactly!
PIERRE: How would I know if we havenTt got it?
QUENTIN: No, no. I mean thatTs right. ThatTs correct.
(pause)
PIERRE: So? |
(long pause) |
QUENTIN: (suddenly dejected) I forget.
(pause)
11
cs
LEER LESLEY LEELA
PSE E ERROR TDS
PIERRE: (shaking his head) Dolt.
QUENTIN: (suddenly excited again) I remember! ""What we need is a god!
PIERRE: (unmoved) Hurrah for our side.
QUENTIN: (animate, ignoring Pierre) We elect him! Within this (indicating the boat) our own little universe. Transcending
metaphysical barriers.
PIERRE: (with grudgingly growing interest) Perhaps. Perhaps. There are possibilities...
QUENTIN: Supreme ruler within this tiny back room of the cosmos, able to dictate at whim the future of his domain. Think of
it! A First Mover!
PIERRE: (thoughtfully) Cause and Effect...
QUENTIN: A reason for living. A reason for dying. (loud, ominous) God"hath willed it!
PIERRE: There would be a resurgence of faith.
QUENTIN: With an ensuing renaissance.
PIERRE: The populace will be secure.
QUENTIN: Certainty becomes a new and wonderful factor.
PIERRE: A million question marks erased.
BOTH: I accept.
(pause)
PIERRE: (stuffily) We shall put it to the vote. All in favor of me for god, signify. (raises his hand) All in favor of you, signify.
(Quentin raises his hand)
(pause)
(They turn simultaneously and look at the boatman)
QUENTIN: What about him?
PIERRE: (contemptuously) Him? Hah! I donTt even think he knows where we are. A lost, mute boatman for a god. Hah! How
ridiculous!
QUENTIN: Preposterous! 4
PIERRE: Insane!
QUENTIN: Comical!
PIERRE: Ludicrous!
QUENTIN: Farcical!
PIERRE: Absurd!
(pause)
QUENTIN: So what do we do now?
12
PIERRE: That depends.
QUENTIN: On what?
PIERRE: On what time it is.
QUENTIN: (peering at his watch, shaking it) Yes.
PIERRE: Good. Then thereTs time.
QUENTIN: (looking around) Where?
PIERRE: WhereTs what?
QUENTIN: WhereTs time?
PIERRE: Who?
QUENTIN: Who??!
PIERRE: You're impertinent.
QUENTIN: YouTre obese.
PIERRE: You're arcane.
QUENTIN: YouTre mordant.
PIERRE: You've got bad breath.
QUENTIN: Your feet rot.
PIERRE: Termigant.
QUENTIN: Virago.
PIERRE: Haridan.
QUENTIN: Shrew.
(pause)
PIERRE: (pensively) What we need is government.
QUENTIN: (clasping his hands) How exciting!
PIERRE: (scholarly) Yes"preceeding the establishment of gods and/or religion is the need for government and meaningful social
interaction and organization. (pause) I believe we can eliminate democracy at the outset. Far too complicated. A strict
monarchy would be enviable, but ITm afraid I see immediate trauma. The divine right of kings would not be easily
explained without a deity. Perhaps"perhaps an oligarchy.
QUENTIN: (excited) Oh, yes! Yes! An oligarchy!
PIERRE: It seems plausible. Very well then"supreme power is hereby invested in you and me, and he (nodding to the boatman)
PHAM ERE MIRRORS ONDE ROIS RIERA BESS OO ERNE HOA NEALE OTACA
is our loyal and reverent subject. (with finality) There"now we have government.
QUENTIN: Admirably done!
PIERRE: (aloof) Thank you.
(long pause)
13
See N:
:
(Quentin seems content as he gazes over the side, but Pierre is becoming visibly agitated as he fidgets and shows signs of
restlessness.)
PIERRE: (stiffly) Attention. You are hereby deposed. This is a coup. As of this moment, I declare myself Supreme and Sole
Majestic Ruler of the Varied Realms.
QUENTIN: (incredulous) You canTt do that!
PIERRE: (harshly) Silence! (pause) Why not?
QUENTIN: ItTs a question of ethics.
PIERRE: (with a contemptuous snort) Hah! Ethics are rules invented by runty little boys who grow up to be runty little men.
And for my first royal act, I shall have a purge. I hereby order you to be eradicated.
QUENTIN: (seeing his opportunity) Oh, ho! Well, go ahead.
(pause)
PIERRE: (decidedly confused, looks at the boatman who is totally oblivious.) I need an army.
QUENTIN: (with the upper hand) You surely do. Because I say the peasants are revolting.
PIERRE: (with a last air of aloof nobility) No one will contest that.
QUENTIN: (ignoring him) The despot is overthrown. Anarchy thrives again! (pause) So much for government.
PIERRE: (downtrodden) I suppose it wasnTt a very feasible idea.
QUENTIN: Not in the long run...
(pause)
PIERRE: What time is it?
QUENTIN: (peering at his watch, shakes it, takes it off and pounds it viciously against the gunwhale. He tosses it overboard.)
Tuesday or Saturday?
PIERRE: Does that leave us much time?
QUENTIN: For what?
PIERRE: For anything. }
QUENTIN: (shrugging) Who knows? We must assume that it does.
PIERRE: Must we?
QUENTIN: ~All is lost if we donTt.
PIERRE:(decisively) ITm leaving. (He stands precariously, serious) Just remember that there are two dark themes which inherently
obsess and fascinate man...(pause)...but I canTt recall what they are. (places his foot on the gunwhale)
QUENTIN: (sing-song) YOU-canTt-leave...
PIERRE: Why not?
QUENTIN: Wet??? (Pierre sits down with a thump.)
(pause)
14
What we need here is a meaningful relationship. (slides over to Pierre) Let us relate. (bearhugs Pierre, who passively
humors him.)
PIERRE: (dryly) To love and to cherish...
QUENTIN: (still hugging Pierre) You, dear friend, shall serve as a cherished port in my storms and I shall serve you equally as a
haven"a warm respite in the midst of your tempests. Unable to kill the pain, we may certainly ease
it"together"through thick and thin...
PIERRE: (impatiently untangling himself) There is no thick. ThatTs an illusion. Only degrees of thinness"if that much.
QUENTIN: (sliding back to his side of the craft) Tsk, tsk. My, my"pessimistic, arenTt we, Little Boy Blue.
PIERRE: Go fart.
QUENTIN: (hurt) Well, how am I supposed to carry on an expanding relationship with a misanthropic old goat?
PIERRE: (sharply) DonTt be a fool! You were thrown into this world alone, and you shall be carried out alone. And you shall be
planted in the cold, clammy ground to rot"alone!
(Pause, as Quentin is sulking with his head down while Pierre looks arrogantly across the stage. QuentinTs head rises; he
looks slyly at Pierre several times and suddenly lets loose a long, loud piercing wail. Pierre is unperturbed.)
QUENTIN: (head wagging back and forth, eyes wide, tongue lolls out)
For God to my altar
To alter my god
ITve five royal schillings
They rust in the sod.
Ohhhh! ITve five royal schillings
And they rust in the sod.
Sod sod sod sod"omy and gonorreah
Sod is clumped clods
No man is a clod
But all men become sod.
(He lapses into low, inarticulate babbling)
PIERRE: (totally unmoved) InsanityTs been tried by better fools than you. Unfortunately, it has a painful reality all its own.
QUENTIN: (suddenly silent, relaxing with a deep sigh) ItTs a tedious role, isnTt it?
PIERRE: (quietly) They all are after a while.
(pause)
QUENTIN: What are we going to do?
PIERRE: (shrugging) Drift, I suppose.
15
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Allen Ginsberg
handfuls.
Memoir by ARCHIE GASTOR
Z FY
Yj YW
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ZY
Where are you, Howdy Doody? Is there a shrine where I may see your
bandanna; where I can steal a last glimpse of those huge freckles? Oh, American
Bandstand, how could you desert me? DidnTt I stand behind you when our high
priest, Dick Clark, was called before a congressional committee to answer charges of
payola? DidnTt I laugh when a congressman asked Dick why he didnTt play some
good music like Frank Sinatra instead of that short-haired be-bop? Certainly, there
is a monument to you, American Bandstand. Somewhere there must be a simple
statue of a slouching teenager wearing dungarees, an Italian shirt, and a flat-top and
holding a 45 RPM recording of Blue Suede Shoes.
Where is Howdy Doody? Word has it that he left the country quietly after
being accused of plugging a certain brand of balsa wood on the air. The rumors
were false about good old Howdy. Although many people believe there were many
Howdy Doodys, and that each Howdy was dressed in a different costume, there was
\ really only one and he did change costumes. The true story is that there were many
Buffalo Bob Smiths, and each one was trained to do a different trick, but none of
them ever learned to change clothes the way Howdy could. Where are the Buffalo
Bobs today? Well, one is on a college lecture tour, and the others took up peanut
farming.
If there is any doubt in the world that television is American and all American,
just look at what it has accomplished for big business in the United States. As a
matter of fact, it is the current rumor of the video set that Howard Hughes, before
he sold his TWA stock, conceived and developed the idea for oThe Flying Nun.� It
was all a plot to rid the common man of the fear of flying. With divine power, how
could you develop engine trouble?
Careful analysis of market trends has left no shadow of a doubt that ITT stock
has increased in value in direct proportion to the number of TV sets in use in the |
American home. Just imagine the buzz of the private lines each weekday as
Americans dial their favorite neighbor and ask the most poignant question involving |
TV theology today, oDid you hear what Paul Lynde said on Hollywood Squares?�
A little known item contained in the Pentagon Papers on a page that was eaten |
by a three star general is said to have revealed a conspiracy involving ITT and the
army that would have made a three minute story on the CBS news. It seems ITT
was planning to give the army 30 seconds of advertising time on their Bell
Telephone Hour providing the army use the time to show a soldier in Saigon |
phoning his wife in Bangor, Maine, person to person and collect. The rumor
repudiated, however, when x-rays of the generalTs stomach revealed that the wife
actually lived in Portland.
The other evening, as | pondered weak and weary my 11 inch Sylvania, I |
mustered my troops and found the strength to reach over and turn off Walter
Cronkite just as he was telling me, in an intimate way, about a sixteen-year-old girl
who killed herself and the other members of her softball team by pitching a hand
grenade over home plate. Walter admitted that the motivation of the girl was purely
their conjecture, since the only one left to interview was the bat; however, by
questioning another newsman at the scene, the CBS reporter came up with definite |
evidence that the girl was a loner, and the rest of the team had been trying to get
her to join the Church of God.
The meeting began as usual, with the handing out of the bumper sticker of the
week. Then, after pie and coffee, one of the members showed color slides of his
recent visit to Norman Vincent Peale. Finally, I thought we were ready to get down
to the weekly discussion of religion in our lives when a visiting member of another
group, a group called Free Virginia (they believed Virginia Graham was forced off
of TV against her will and is being held prisoner inside a Chiquita banana), stood up
and asked our pastor how much money he thought she should give to the church of
God to give her a room with a TV when she gets to Heaven. The pastor answered
her with a question, as he occasionally does. He asked her what made her believe
that there are TV sets in Heaven. She soon caught on to the way things were going
and answered him with another question. She asked him if he thought a loving,
charitable God would want her to miss oLetTs Make A Deal.� Our pastor shook his
head as if he agreed with her, and then asked her if she did not think that God
17
would want her to trade the vain, temporary values of a dying Earth for true,
meaningful, saintly ones like love, peace, and eternal joy when she went to join
Him. She said yes, that she would trade, if that was the big deal of the day.
So then our weekly meeting became just another discussion of TV. One proud
mother testified on the importance of TV in rearing children. She said her
five-year-old had left the house on his ten speed posi-traction mini-bike and met
with an accident. She found him screaming and crying, and nothing she said would
make him stop. Then TV saved her. She told her boy to imagine that she was
Marshal Dillon, and that she had found him wounded on the trail and was carrying
him back to Dodge where Marcus Welby would kiss the hurt and make it well. Most
of us agreed that her thinking was brilliant; however, one member spoke out and
asked her if she did not believe that incident would cause her son to grow up to be
a homosexual.
I guess the member of our group who said it all was a tiny woman named Bess
Rating, a midget genius with a gift for prophecy who stands only 21 inches high
18
(measured diagonally) when she said, oTV is just a vicious circle. You get up in the
morning and exercise with the physical fitness show, and you lose a pound. Then,
you eat a 49 cent bag of potato chips wondering if Grandpa on ~As the World
TurnsT is having an affair with a nurse on ~General Hospital.T �T
The remaining time was passed in a discussion of the history of television, and
I learned many important facts that I wish to relate to TV buffs everywhere. First
of all, it seems TV was only rediscovered in this century. Actually, the talent for
making them goes back to the Middle Ages, but the art was lost for centuries while
Europe was in darkness.
It seems that Marco Polo brought the first TV set to Europe when he returned
from China. China had only produced one TV, and it was hand made; however,
Marco Polo, being capitalist minded, traded them out of it. It was a six inch Ching
model that sold for 4,000 doobles when it was new, but Marco got it for a Kodak
Instamatic and a roll of film that had to be sent to the West Indies for processing.
The Chinese objected at first because they had no way to send the film so far, so
Marco threw in a complete original set of Leonardo Da Vinci drawings of a flying
machine to clench the deal.
The Chinese thought to themselves, oAh, such a fool, this westerner, he trades
for a TV in summer when everyone knows Johnnyis on vacation, and Joey Bishop
is taking his place.�
Marco Polo thought to himself, oAh, again I have proved the Caucasian mind
superior. These foolish easterners trade for a camera when there is nothing here to
take pictures of. Nixon will not be coming over for many hundred years.�
So Marco climbed on his donkey and headed back for Italy. The donkey grew
weary from the weight of the TV. It was a console model. The Chinese have always
liked a big picture, and with a six inch screen, half the population could watch
shows about the other half of the population developing the H-bomb.
Marco made it home, took off his :shirt, opened a can of beer, and settled
back to watch his TV set. But the damned thing didnTt work. There was no
guarantee on the set, so Marco decided to take the back off and fix it himself. You
can imagine his surprise when he got inside that set and found nothing there but a
little nude Chinese fellow doing an impression of oThe Brady Bunch�T practicing
accupuncture on oThe Partridge Family.�
Word soon spread over Europe that the Chinese could not be trusted. The
knights banned together in what was to be the crusade to recapture the TV works,
but it was decided to send falcons over China dropping illuminated manuscripts to
educate the heathens instead. Meanwhile, Marco Polo had learned to speak the
language of the little nude Chinese fellow and had discovered that this man was the
leading Chinese scientist assigned to the H-bomb. Marco forced this pitiful little
loyalty torn specimen to give him the plans for the bomb by threatening to cut off
his volume control; an act that has been called aggressive by scholars, world leaders,
4 and Dinah Shore from that day to this.
As history records it, mankind soon forgot about the bomb and the TV and
their secrets lay buried while men pursued other things like art, culture, music,
| religion, philosophy, holy wars, noble wars, slavery, greed, power, and wealth.
WonTt it be a beautiful happening someday when television has complete
control of our society. Just imagine the time when a son will leave home, and the
best piece of advice a father will be able to give him is, oSon, whatever you do,
keep the money. DonTt trade for whatTs behind the curtain. ItTs a zonk.�
19
edt
iy
~fi
G
20
in the room
where there are no walls behind you
no windows to feel alone
no doors to keep you safe
where ceilings are the winds
no floors to fall to
no cubicle contains
in the room
where there are no voices
where there are no conditions
ex cept those hand-made
Aging
way back in the times when they built those temples in
Mexico and cut your heart out on the altar, and you made
jokes like, What do you get when you put an icicle on top
of a bicycle? A tricycle! I walked right out and men were
hanging from all the trees, their hair like dental floss, their
limbs like plumbing fixtures, the flesh on their stomachs
like glass baubles or gold bangles swaying in the wind.
way back in the times when men tied their feet to ropes
and black leather cords and flew through the air while
attached to temples, when your flesh was like papaya, sweet
pulpy fruit, when religion was just an insanity, a ritual,
and your jokes were only misdemeanors, I took you to church
and we each married a monkey while the organ grinder played
fire and daughter and we both smiled bright as rubies in a
black manTs ear. now it is way back now, swayback, the very
empty end of an enormous channel, a tunnel, a mutilated
cornucopia, a river defiled with too many years, and there
are racetracks driven like stakes down my cheeks, the highways
of too many, too many tears, my hair is hysterical, my hands
the claws of wrens. till when I can take care of the cockatoo,
and you can build cages of straw and leaves, till we can marry
each other with the choir pumping distilled sentiments down
the drains of our fears, and your jokes will resemble sugar, candy
accordions, till then do you remember way back in the times when
yBnouy | ~uolbas JayzOue Ul pa}ed0] aq PjNoys Jeay Sly yey} MOU |
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~Awouoj}ne }O SSau}aaMs
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seq uOSIid ay} ysed }Yybie4}s YOO] pue Spo uapjob uo Buny pooyq jo
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uo dn pue}s pue Hulsidsaxd 319M | 41 SB SajOSNwW We Aw xoj4 | 4]
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" ~ nnn Ren Erm Ne RS om ne " " "
" urcrenneaner ennenpareen tent pene maennint
21
®
God
provided
ice
but forgot
booze
~saha AW UiIM
Wau} Jamsue AjUuO UeD | *SUdA}}I>) 8}NWW PUeSNOY} XIS JO SUIS BY} JapUN
BulAj we | ~aw ye Buljulod ~ajdu19 e ul {Je ase Aay} AjUappNs
~adoosoiABb e a4aM ay ji se
pa yje} pue sassejb payo}esos pey 4ay}O ay] ~assOyaoes e Aq JO UA}}IG
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éYU}IM Anos ayew O} auog e
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~Huluueasos si Jayyou Aww Uayd}!> ay} Uy oUbledWwed ay} Bulunp aj9Ao1}
JOU YIM Weds0-39! APeW puUe JUAPISasg JOJ ULI OYM |JIH e jNOGe AJO}sS
Pe aW Huljja} pue poojg Hbulzeams aw apis aq bulA] si uewW Vy oUIYs}eams
s uew big e 1ng Buly}OU UI! passaip paq ul }e}} HulAj pue auo-AjUaM} We |
~Buidaays si sayuze} Ajj o49}UN09 Jabiab e se snoixue se aUODAq |
pue ~Hulyory Ayquiey pi seay Ued | HUI} | YSA|} JO SaiwW PUe Saji
yBnosy | ~uoibas 4aYyZOUR U! Pa} edO] aq PjNoys Jeay siy Jey MOU |
ybnou} ~apisul Aeme je} addyYMaWoOsS Jeay siy Jeay ued | oBYDe}SNOW
Jeq-ajpuey e seu dy oYdeWO}s Je} S JaUJe} AWW UO BulA] Lue | apIsINO
~oAwouo}ne }O ssau}aeMs
9U} /ajOADI4} BVIYM pue pas AW YyIM Weald ad! Hulyew Wwe | jWeasd 39d!
jwueas9 39| ~Hulznoyus pue spuey Aw Uy IM sjepad ay} Hulysnd we | ~sho
peaids Aw uaamjaq sieq-ajpuey $}! uO Huljsai pue UMOP apisdn pausn}
aj9Ao143 Aw ~obediuy ul 4;eMapis e UO Hulj}IS We | PUe XIS We |
~sAes aus ~pjJOM ay} $,jeYy] ~Sada Jay JO NO
sueq UOSIId ay} ysed }YUbiIesJs YOO] pue spo. Uapjob uO buny pooygq jo
SUIEJIND By} apise YSNd ued | Sawi}awos ~ued | se yYbiy se sao} AW
uO dn pue}s pue Hulsidsaxa auam | 41 Se sajosnuu We AW xajJ | 4]
~}]8q paljOg ~apm e YIM Y4IyS AAeu e pue asnojq paydiejys e pue saouUs
Jayuj}ea| Jua}ed Bulseam ~yoewo}s s jayzOUW AW apisu! dn bulpue}s we |
~saha AW YiIM
Way} Jamsue AjUuO UeD | *SUA}}I> 8}NLWW PUeSNOY} XIS JO SUIS 94} JapUN
BurAj we | ~aw 3e Huljzulod ~ajou19 e ul |je ase Aay} Ajuappns
oadoosoJAB e aiam ay JI se
payje} pue sassej6 payo}esos pey JayLO ay] oassOYades e Aq JjO UA}}IG
Jabull Xapul SIY PeY BUG oSUIO| $,Jay}e} AW JO NO paxjeM S49aYy}OIG OML
éYUIM Anos ayewW O} 9uOg e
aney 0} Ba; AW jJ0 31ND 0} awW JUeM NOA OG {dnos aryew | UeD MOH {dnos
~Huluueasos $i JayOW AW UdaYyd}Iy ay} U| oUbledwed ay} Bulunp ajdAd147
JOY ULIM WeIID-39! ape pue JUAaPISaig JO} ULI OYM [416 e JNOGe AJO}s
e aw Huljja} pue pooyjg Bulzeams aw apis aq bulA] si uewW Vy oUIYs}eams
s uel Big e 1ng Hulyzou ul passaip paq ul! 1e|4 BulA] pue auo-AjUaM} We |
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pue ~Hulyd1} Ajjules 31 4e|ay UBD | YUIY} | YS2]} JO SajiLU PUe SajILU
rrr en Pac tn NNT AE NNN ET DN ANID IT EADIE EE
God [
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ice
but forgot A
booze.
i
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21
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When | Lived In a Room Of Blood
27 forevers ago
and read you ina pan on the stove
for crying, I thought that
anatomy was destiny; but your
crooked limbs, your Quasimodo
back, your paralysis was no
fake Frankenstein, no remote
resemblance to man. ITve got
Tristan and Isolde in my veins,
musical salagtites hanging from
my upper lips, feakish growths
inside my head, sagging breasts
pinned with corsages, but could I
imagine how you live? A steel
monsterhood soaked in the irony of
manipulation. No less, the doctor
even put his tongs to your head.
Tatooed put on your skin with
indelible sex, smeared across
your forehead like bloody roses,
the insects of the universe are less
unsteady in their plight. ~We will
fight this handicap with all our
might!� the counselor bleated, shaking,
ever-enthused; then pulled back his
Milland ciragette, smoothed out Liberace
lapels, and proposed to try to explain to
you the eminent theories of
deprivation. ((there are no fates much
worse than life)).
23
4
q
8
H
ANIONS ASK OREN MADR, LITRE
.../t is precisely facts that do not exist, only interpretations...
oKeep it fresh� Ezra Pound
Words wed to careless tongues |
Hide in deep closets,
Grow pale,
Die.
Poets rummage
The dark and sweep
Them out.
what say you there
in the air hangs?-
some multi-faced Demonical F ACT
a condition of our perception
the observable behaviorTs direction
perhaps
some saw-toothed one-eyed Theory Troll
with his documented point of view
the evidence eats its way through
= or ,
z what want you
= to live by?-
that quiet infinite Secret
the prevailing sense of terror |
a changing in the wind
a feeling ( not knowing )
a smelling of the Awesome
A fearing of the Perfect
Unalterable Tyranous Truth
and the Open Eyes
of your Self
look back at you
with tears of joy-
live by this?
who said ~vesT?
24
o> Texas is
x ~ >
4 the land
,,0f giants
ons
_ who stalk
the dry land
in boots
nine feet long.
Texas is
the land
of corn-fed
young things
whose breats bounce
free and
unfettered. . % Z
Patrick Poindexter was a little boy just like any other four-year-old boy. He liked television, especially on Saturday
morning. But he didnTt like the news or network difficulty.
And like all four-year-old boys, he had a wonderful imagination. He lived on the edge of a giant forest. One day he had a
perfectly wonderful conversation with this fat old frog friend of his. The frog told him about his wife and his little tads and how
hard it was to provide for them. But when Patrick went into the house and tried to tell his mommy about George (that was the
frogTs name) she didnTt seem to believe there was anybody named George Frog. She never did believe Patrick when he talked
about George. So Patrick Poindexter just forgot all about it and had some milk and cookies and took a nap.
The next morning was Saturday, Patrick PoindexterTs favorite day. Daddy and mommy would be home all day, and daddy
would doubtless do something terrific"like wash the car or cut the grass. And sometimes, he would let Patrick help, which was
great.
But since it was Saturday, Patrick Poindexter knew his mommy and daddy would sleep later than usual. So very early that
Saturday morning, Patrick put on his robe and slippers and went down to the kitchen. He made himself a bowl of cereal, spilled
the milk, knocked over the sugar dish and headed out for the backyard toward the fenced-in half acre.
The birds were singing ~Jesus Loves Me,� and Patrick Poindexter hummed along with them slightly off key, wondering how
the birds knew the tune better than he. But anyway, he knew the words better. After all, Patrick Poindexter was smarter than
any old dumb bird. oI mean, I am four and a half,� he reminded himself.
oNow where is that dumb old George Frog?� Patrick muttered.
oHere I am, Patrick Poindexter; been waiting for you. Come on.�
With that, Patrick Poindexter followed GeorgeTs hippity-hop through the backyard and into the forest.
oHey, George Frog, where are we going?�
oJust follow me, Patrick. As frogs go, ITm pretty clever, you know! Just come along!�
oAll right then, George Frog.�
Suddenly, they came to a deep place in the forest with a sort of a clearing. George turned around, looked at Patrick
Poindexter and winked the way only frogs do and hopped off, leaving Patrick all alone in the forest.
As Patrick Poindexter stood there in this little forest glen, things were for a few minutes just as things should be in any
other little forest glen. For instance, he saw two small ants shoving this crust of bread along. He asked them where they were
taking it, and they indicated, rather crossly, that that was their business, not his. He even tried to help them a little. Well, they
just had a terrible temper tantrum over that. So Patrick Poindexter warned them not to have temper tantrums, at least in front
of their parents, or theyTd surely get punished, and walked away from them and forgot the whole rude incident.
Patrick Poindexter decided, on the whole, ants werenTt really his favorite type people. They most all acted cross, nervous,
a short story
and in a hurry like his great Ant Clara. Maybe thatTs why they were called ants.
Then suddenly, a wonderful thing happened in that little forest glen. The birds started flying around, scolding him terribly
at first, and then everything became still and smooth all over like whipped cream. Patrick Poindexter felt a sense of excitement,
and he knew something magic was going to happen"and it did.
As Patrick stood there very quietly looking up through the tree tops, he heard a soft whirring sound. And right up there in
the air, hanging in the soft blue sky, was a gigantic purple balloon with a little purple basket under it.
At first, it seemed to be just hanging there, but as Patrick Poindexter stared up at it, well, it started getting larger and larger.
oOh, my goodness,� Patrick said aloud. oItTs falling down.�
And it was. Before Patrick Poindexter could call George Frog, or run back hom and wake up his mommy and daddy or
anything, this giant purple balloon with big yellow funny looking letters on it had dropped slowly from the sky and landed right
there in this little magic forest clearing, not ten feet from where Patrick was standing.
In the purple basket was nothing, Patrick Poindexter noted. Well, nothing at first anyway. And then, Patrick could barely
believe his eyes. A little foot came over the side of the basket, and a little leg, then a little fat tummy. Finally, there stood a little
old man, brushing himself off. And such a little man Patrick Poindexter had never seen before. Why, he wasnTt much taller than
Patrick himself. And how handsome were his clothes. He was dressed all in purple from head to toe, except for a big red nose
that stood out pretty far"right in the middle of his face. He was wearing a purple split-tail coat, purple pin-striped trousers, and
purple shoes and a wonderful silk purple hat. He was wearing purple gloves and was even carrying a purple cane. Patrick
Poindexter noticed the little old man dressed in purple looked kind of wobbly as he reached in his back pocket and took out this
bottle of medicine. Why, the medicine was even purple. He unscrewed the top and was taking a swallow of this purple medicine
when Patrick Poindexter first spoke.
oHi there, purple man.�
Patrick Poindexter tried to sound bold and loud. Well, when Patrick spoke, the little old man dressed in purple jumped so
hard he almost spilled his purple medicine.
oMy nameTs Patrick Poindexter! WhatTs yours?�
Patrick spoke this time even more confidently. By this time, the little old purple man didnTt seem quite so wobbly and
looked at Patrick and made a great flourish with his hat and cane and spoke in a squeaky old voice that came right out of the
side of his mouth.
oWhy, Patrick Poindexter. Ah, yes, mTboy. Grand meeting you formally. ITve heard so many fine things about you from up
there on my purple planet. The nameTs Bushfeather, Colonel Bosh Bushfeather at your service.�
oWow!� Patrick Poindexter said right aloud and laughed even though he knew he was being rude. oWow, Colonel Bosh
Bushfeather, youTre something, wow.�
oWell, thank you, my lad, I take those words as a mandate. Quite a trip all the way from my purple planet. Let me sit here
on this rock a moment,� Colonel Bushfeather said as he sat on a rock, taking off his wonderful purple silk hat and fanning
himself.
oGeorge Frog, heTs my friend, must have known you were coming. I followed him out here,� Patrick said sitting on the
ground looking up at Colonel Bosh Bushfeather with great admiration. PatrickTs words seemed to upset the Colonel a little,
because he suddenly looked around and said with a start, oFrog? George Frog? Where...Who...Where is this man, Mr. Frog,
mTboy?�
Patrick smiled and said, oOh, Colonel, George ainTt, I mean, isnTt a man. HeTs a frog. I followed him out here from my
house, and when we got here, I guess he just hopped off. You know how frogs are. Kinda dumb!�
A look of relief came over the ColonelTs face as he spoke, oAh, yes, didnTt get you right the first time.� The Colonel was
having another dose of that purple medicine. oGood old George! How is he and his family, mTboy?�
PatrickTs eyes widened. oDo you know George Frog, Colonel?�
oOh, my yes. Been knowing old George for years. Used to have a traveling medicine show together. George and I (along
with my late wife, Mrs. Bushfeather) did an act together. We tricked the audience into thinking that George wasnTt a frog atall,
but a handsome prince only by a kiss from the lovely Princess Drusilla, played by Mrs. Bushfeather. When she kissed George, a
great cloud of purple dust engulfed the stage. When it died down, George would be in his place, there I stood, next to Mrs.
Bushfeather, in all my princely grandeur. I was a veritable Barrymore in those days, mTboy.�
oGollay,� Patrick gulped, owhat an act!�
oYes, it was, my boy. Had to give it up though.�
Patrick broke in, oAnd ITll bet I know why. Mrs. Bushfeather got warts on her lips from kissing old George.�
The Colonel laughed, oAh, you're a bright lad, mTboy. But in this case, youTre wrong. George left the act complaining of
Mrs. BushfeatherTs love for garlic. She ate it every evening in her salad. George finally put his foot down. George said, oEither the
garlic goes, or I go.T And thatTs the last ITve seen of old George.�
Now Patrick spoke cautiously. oWhat ever happened to Mrs. Bushfeather? I mean, I hate to ask but....�
oAh, donTt give it a thought, mTboy, I donTt! LetTs see, it was either in 1936 or 38...donTt remember which. She got run
over by a vegetable hawkerTs wagon in Upper Sandsky which was loaded down at the time with garlic. I warned the poor dear,
but she wouldnTt listen. But getting down to things more serious, tell me, Patrick mTboy, how is George Frog?�
oOh, heTs okay.�
28
There was an embarrassing pause as the Colonel took another swig from his purple medicine bottle.
oColonel sir, I wanna ask you something.�
oFire away, m'little tike. The Colonel knows all and tells all.�
oWell,� Patrick Poindexter said, choosing his words carefully, owhatTs that pretty medicine youTre drinking?�
oOh, that!� the Colonel said with a wink. oITm glad you asked me that, mTboy. That is the very ingredient George Frog and
I used to sell in our traveling medicine show. A wonderful medicinal preparation. On my purple planet, we call it purple
purangashoo. ItTs a panacea for all human ailments. Removes warts, pimples, moles, also good for asthma, hay fever and the
common cold. But most of all, and this is the best thing about purple purangashoo, mTboy.� The Colonel paused looking around
to make sure that he and Patrick were alone.
oWhat! What!� Patrick interjected excitedly.
The Colonel bent slightly forward placing a finger aside his bulbous nose and spoke in a rasping whisper, oIt makes you...it
makes you a believer.�
Patrick gasped leaning forward. oCan I have some, sir?�
The Colonel responded as though heTd been shot with a cannon. oNo! No! mTlad! Never young, sir.�
oWhy, Colonel?� Patrick asked terrifically stunned.
oWell,� the ColonelTs voice warmed, owhy give medicine to the well. You already believe. On my purple planet, no one
believes without Purple Purangashoo. We must take this simple tonic to believe what the eye doesnTt see or the ear doesnTt hear.�
oWhatcha mean, Colonel?� Patrick asked.
oWell, Patrick Poindexter, you have a great gift. You believe ! You believe in a great many wonderful things. First of all,
you believe in your friend, George Frog. You believe in elves; you believe in reindeer that fly through the air pulling a sled filled
with toys and a personal old friend of mine, who is slightly overweight; you know who I mean.�
With that, the Colonel winked and Patrick Poindexter smiled back at him knowingly.
oTet me continue,� said the Colonel with a small belch. oYou believe in the Easter bunny, the tooth fairy, the sandman
and most important of all, you believe in me!�
oT sure do,� said Patrick.
oWell, there you have it,� said the Colonel. oThe poor people on my purple planet only believe while medicating
themselves with Purple Purangashoo.�
oReally?� asked Patrick amazed.
oThatTs right, mTlad, and the unfortunate thing is that some people on your planet only believe while taking medication
similar to Purple Purangashoo. Why, Patrick, youTd never believe this, but some people on your planet donTt even believe in
themselves. ThatTs right! I said themselves, unless fully medicated by some such brew similar to Purple Purangashoo,� the
Colonel said with a loud burp.
oYouTre kidding!� Patrick responded wide-eyed.
oNo, mTboy,� said the Colonel rising. oSee how lucky you are. You are a believer. Now, stay that way. Up on the purple
planet, weTd call you ~Positive Pat.T �
oWhat Ts that mean, Colonel?� asked Patrick.
oIt means, youTre the one we count on who always knows.�
With that, the Colonel rose, if somewhat unsteadily, and headed back toward the basket of his balloon.
Patrick sat in the forest glen watching Colonel Bosh BushfeatherTs purple balloon disappear in the blue sky through the tree
tops.
Then suddenly, George Frog appeared. oWell, I hope you had a good time. I gotta go now, see ya, Patrick Poindexter.
YouTre my friend, but I have more important things to attend to.�
Patrick looked around and saw old ugly George Frog just sitting there squatting and winking at him.
oOkay, George, thanks. I had a great day. I gotta get home. See ya.� ....
Charles Poindexter sat across the kitchen table from his wife, Betty. He felt great. The coffee smelled good. The ham added
savor to the eggs scrambling on the stove. Down deep, Charlie Poindexter was happy. And this was his big day!
Betty sat down watching Charlie happily scrutinizing the ads in the morning paper. After almost ten years, she finally
understood her nutty husband. He was born and bred an ad man. She knew, by now, he couldnTt help it. And as zany as it
sounded, she loved him for it. She still remembered the night he got out of bed at 2:00 a.m. and recorded a conversation with a
cricket in the house. It really did turn into a good commercial.
Why, heTd opened up a dozen shopping centers around the country, and most of them had prospered tremendously.
Admittedly, she had thought his ideas, especially this last one, were a little far out, extravagant and ridiculous. But she was an ad
manTs wife"not an ad man.
oCharlie, itTs none of my business, but explain the Parr Plaza Shopping Center idea again,� she said trying to keep the nag
out of her voice.
Charlie looked at his wife, loving her inspite of her lack of imagination"took a gulp of hot black coffee and crackled,
slightly impatiently.
oWell, you see, Betty, they threw the loot at me. So I turned their shopping center into a purple planet. You know"purple
ferris wheels, purple merry-go-rounds, purple balloon lifts, purple cotton candy and 100 midgets dressed in purple. One midget
29
all the way from White Plains, N.Y., who does a perfect W. C. Fields; calls himself Colonel Bosh Bushfeather.�
oT hear heTs a wino,� Betty smirked.
oOkay, heTs got a slight alcohol problem, but heTs great. And he keeps the booze under control,� Charlie retorted.
oWell,� Betty said, oitTs almost 8:30. YouTd better get over there. The center opens in just 30 minutes. By the way, whereTs
Patrick?�
oT dunno, the half acre is fenced off. And so is the yard. HeTs gotta be around. Why worry?�
Then suddenly, as if on cue, in burst Patrick Poindexter.
oHi, buddy,� Charlie said.
oLook, Dad, Mommy, have I had a great morning. George Frog and I...�
oNow, donTt start that nonsense, Patrick. Frogs canTt talk, and you know it,� Betty put in quickly.
oNo, they can! I know it cause, Mommy, you havenTt had any Purple Purangashoo! Course I havenTt neither. But the
Colonel said ITm a natural born believer and donTt need it. But a lot of folks ainTt"I mean, isnTt"I mean, arenTt"I mean...Colonel
Bosh Bushfeather toldTme all about his purple planet. Did I just dream all that, Daddy?�
Suddenly, Charlie Poindexter got up from the table, slipped into his coat and walked over to Patrick. He took his sonTs
hand, bent down and kissed his cheek and said, oCome on, boy, letTs go for a ride. I want to show you something terrific.�
oWhat do ya mean, Daddy?� asked Patrick Poindexter.
oWell, when youTre four years old, and you believe in miracles like talking frogs and purple purangashoo, itTs okay. But
when you're over thirty, and you believe in miracles, people call you names like ad man, poet, artist and sometimes, if theyTre
unkind, they call you nuts. You see, I believe in miracles, too, Patrick.�
oYou do?T Patrick asked breathlessly. oDo you even believe in the purple planet?�
Charlie smiled proudly as they backed out of the garage. oI mean to tell you I do. I created it.�
oCan you take me there now, Daddy?� asked Patrick, never really doubting.
oWeTre on our way!�
Betty Poindexter watched the Chevy wagon turn down the road that led to Parr Plaza Shopping Center and realized the
adult imagination was finally going to meet up with the imagination of a child. Would there be an imaginative crash on this
purple planet? She instinctively knew better because it had ceased to be her husbandTs creative gimmick to kick off a gigantic
advertising campaign. It was now Patrick PoindexterTs purple planet, and that was how it was going to be, like it or not.
Patrick Poindexter rode up with his daddy and parked at Parr Plaza Shopping Center, and sure enough, just like Daddy had
promised, it was terrific. There were purple ferris wheels, purple merry-go-rounds and purple roller coasters and a jillion other
things. There were lots of little men and women dressed in purple. Patrick touched his fatherTs shoulder and said, oGee, Daddy,
your purple planet was great. It is almost like the real thing.�
30
ONY
~sn Aowsap 0] sulepsip Ajauasas js asnevaq Os 3 asIUIpe aM
pue ~asnpua Ajaseg }/198 aM ey} a/Q1419} ay} Jo BuluuiBaq ayi yng Busyzou si jngianeaq ayy
31
manncrass amernnet non eien tances ot
een tnt nt theatre
eel
32
DOGGEREL DEFINED, PLUS TWO
There, there gack the spinning tiles;
Who would wallow in their depths?
SNAP! A toenail cracks:
The gray blot reclaims its own.
Deciduous name tags dwell in their juices;
Flip the lever and toss out tripe.
Whose dripping laughter fills the hall,
That would be their own passion?
Why should inexorable chairs thunder about,
When there a nickel stands alone?
Magnetized knuckles trip out:
A blasphemous prof is only there already.
Irrelevant significance defiles the prist;
Let the beer can bellow sadness.
For whom does the sneeze resound,
While obstreperous meaning snickers?
the day of the morning
when the party
had been called off
even though
god was at the backdoor
dressed in microscopes
and
brothers of the social club
came in priestly shrouds"
the caterers brought rotted meat
the laundry was sent to china
and
you thought your conscience called
but it was only an empty room echoing
and the night before your mother died
you'd
heard the same sound
rattling against your ears
and you were afraid"
but the cameraman will be here
to photograph the cake
and the partyTs definitely cancelled
the coming morning's late
/to the revolution, a tragedy/
oSR RS
after throwing the bombs
ex ploding in bitterness
when you wore the peace
stitched on your jeans
after the clubbings in the street
(the dazzling smell of fear against fear)
bleeding and mumbling into the concrete
roaring drone of bull horns
thick in the gas-filled air
and you whispered ginsbergTs name
(hoping he might appear and adjust your headband)
and you hear marx ~s pen
scuttling across the atlantic
from its british museum birth-
then you knew
then, at last, you saw
to change
your jacket was all that was
required of you...
the emperorTs new clothes
are self made
as most changes are...
33
i
H
Hy
ESSIEN,
SUS
BREET TARO
ORME ERAT
BRE PE ROOD
egg erege2
Waiting for Gloria
A Short Story
The early morning mist that hovers over small mountain towns was just lifting.
There was a freshness in the air that was nippy and clean. The snow hadnTt come
yet, but the trees were almost bare. Similar to a suspended pendulum, neither to
one side of the other, but right in the middle. As the mist lifted, the old man
looked up at the mountains, his eyes showing a longingness; and yet a vague feeling
of hope could be seen there, too. But no one really noticed particularly. They had
seen old Joe many times. He was just like one of the buildings; a permanent fixture
34
jjassny puesnsag
"Sal] YLIM aues UeY} YIN4Z AY] YUM peu! ag 4aY}e4 PjINEM |
in their minds. Nobody noticed where he went particularly, but people did stare at
the unusual way he walked. Joe said he walked that way because of an injury
received in World War I, but those who could remember back knew that he had
fallen off his back porch ten years ago. Just never healed. Old Joe never believed in
Doctors. It was no alarm when Joe came down to the station that day, because he
came every morning. Everyday when it was time for the train to roll in, he was
there wearing his same old tattered Sunday suit. As soon as it arrived, Joe would
walk up and talk to the Engineer, and then when the train left, he would go back
home, hobbling along with his dog at his heels.
Joe lived alone in his old square frame house right outside of town. He and his
dog sat out on the porch and watched the whole world go by. The only place he
ever went, as far as anybody knew, was to the train station, and he was there every
morning at 9:00 sharp when the train pulled in. People wondered at first why he
came to the station like that everyday, but people couldnTt trust what the old man
said. Why, everyone knew he was a little touched! They would go up to old Joe, pat
him on the shoulder and ask, oWhat you doing down here today, Joe?� Old Joe
would just look up, smile and say, oITm waiting for Gloria.�
Small towns in the Virginia mountains donTt change very much, havenTt for
about the last fifty years or so. People who were born here usually marry here, raise
kids here and someday die here. The cycle never ends; it keeps getting passed down
from generation to generation. The only thing that ever really grows here is the
graveyard.
In a way Joe was a freak from the cycle. The old codgers say he left in about
1920 or so for the city, but he returned five years later. Before he left, he was a
lively sort of fellow, always joking and playing around. But when he came back, he
sort of stayed to himself except at 9:00 every morning, he would go down to the
station and wait. He always looked excited; his withered white hair shone in the
morning sun, and his face held the hopes of a lifetime of old fools in its depths. Joe
was a sort of foolTs saviour, who kept right on holding on to his dreams.
The whistle blew shrilly and echoed all through the mountains. The train was
the only link with the outside, a mere remnant from another world. As the train
approached, the old man straightened out his tie and tried to smooth the years
from his wrinkled suit. The station master stared while Joe combed his hair and wet
it down with a look of satisfaction. He walked out the door of the station just as
the train was pulling to a stop. He went up to the Engineer and said, ~o~WhereTs
Gloria?� The Engineer looked down solemnly at the old man and replied sadly,
oShe didnTt get on this morning, Joe.� The whistle blew shortly after, and the train
pulled out of the station, leaving the man and his dog watching it pull away, sadness
entrenched in their faces, disappointment a way of life.
Old Joe walked slowly back to his house, dragging his foot; his dog loping at
his side. The ones who noticed him didnTt pay much attention to the old man and
the multi-colored mutt that was with him. Sure they felt sorry for the old man.
Why, everybody knew he was touched! Poor old man, they thought, ainTt got a soul
to care about him. Those who were distracted from their everyday lives by his
presence felt a twinge of sorrow, but it was soon forgotten.
As the old man got just out of town, he looked down at his dog and sort of
chuckled to himself. oGood boy!� he said. The little dog wagged his tail and barked
as if laughing, too. Old Joe sat on the front porch and patted his dog on the head.
Once again the dog wagged his tail in approval, and they both sat on the porch with
a satisfied grin on their faces.
The early morning mist that hovers over small mountain towns was just lifting.
There was a freshness in the air that was nippy and clean. The snow hadnTt fallen
yet, but the leaves had disappeared from the trees. Old Joe looked up at the
mountains, his eyes showing a longingness, and yet there was still hope in his eyes.
No one really paid any attention to the old fool. Why, everybody knew he was
touched! He came down to the station every morning, so why should they pay any
attention to him? CouldnTt get any sense out of him. If anyone asked him what he
was doing at the train station, he would just look up at them and smile saying, oITm
waiting for Gloria.�
35
EDITORTS NOTE: The following manuscript was found within John BarthTs oThe Floating Opera� shortly after the authorTs
tragic and untimely demise.
Yes, dear reader, | laughed when first | read ~The Floating Opera.� Who but a lovesick old Daughter of
the Confederacy would not? It is, at first, so very easy to laugh at Todd Andrews and his futile attempt at
living, not to mention his futile attempt at dying. But, on reflection, it can also be very troubling and sad.
| will admit that you cannot help but greet"with humor"Andrews'T declaration that he has, at long last,
the proper reward for a raving universe that has tormented him for so long. And can you truly consider
anyone serious who dances a otrepakTT along the meandering streets of a stoic Maryland community, even
caroling a few o~corhe-all-yeTsTT into the silent air. Then, he actually turns solemnly to you and says, ~~Suicide
was my answer; my answer was suicide.�
So you chuckle at Todd (almost the German word for death) Andrews. And perhaps rightly so, if such is
your state of mind. Such was my reaction at the initial reading. However, a second reading found me not
further unraveling this strange creation of John Barth, but rather discovering a panoramic view of myself
spread through this worded insanity. And so may you, if you do not exercise caution. For do not deceive
yourself into believing that it is only Todd Andrews and myself who find life a futile, senseless struggle. If you
also turn your critical vision inward, you may find a flailing soul that cries for release.
If you, my confidants, have ever pondered suicide, you must realize the massive undertaking it is if you
wish to expire in the proper manner. After all, it would be rather a pitiful occurrence to suffer the degradation
of being found dead in your own cozy little bed, having rendered yourself up painlessly in golden slumber.
How cruelly disappointing to your friends whom you have cheated of all speculation as to how you met the
merciless Angel of Death, how you struggled and suffered under his vicious and unrelenting attack.
It is necessary, after all, to feel pity for those you are leaving in this dark world to wander without your
omnipotent presence. So it is that Andrews undertakes to live his last day just as he has every other,
continuing every habit, while tidying up those affairs which might suffer without his attentions.
And so we walk along the shady streets of Cambridge, Maryland, with the fifty-four year old lawyer,
feeling secure in his presence and cheered by his numerous disgressions as he follows BarthTs meandering
stream style. It is during this stroll that you, dear reader, may discover the utter futility of your own life as |
did.
You will, at first, laugh at the sexual encounters of Andrews. His first attempt will make you wince as
you remember the awkwardness of your own stirring occasion. Perhaps Andrews did go a bit far when he
roared uncontrollably at his and Betty JuneTs skinny, entwined bodies reflected in a mirror. It might be
important to note that he regretted his mirth several years later when the same young lady nearly sliced him
to pieces with a rubbing alcohol bottle in a Baltimore brothel.
Barth turns more attention to the unusual relationship between Andrews and his best friends, the
Harrison Macks. Harrison Mack is a pickle magnate who knowingly allowed our friend to carry on a rather
long and fruitful affair with his beautiful wife, Jane"exactly six hundred and seventy-three times per year
with two left over. Certainly respectable for a fellow with a bad heart when you consider it, dear reader.
Yet, in this affair, we begin to see the futility of life. It is truly futile to love a woman and yet be unable
to possess her, or even claim her outside of a dingy hotel room called home for many years, as in AndrewsT
case. Five years he passed in this manner.
As we continue our day with Andrews, more and more of this man becomes evident to us, and our
kinship with him grows. For instance, each of us has surely lost someone near, by some means or other. We
should then be able to feel what our friend does as he relates how he found his father deftly suspended from
the rafters of the basement after the stock market tumbled. We can feel the destruction of a personal universe
as Andrews tells us of searching the house for his father, finally discovering him, o~one end of his belt spiked to
a floor joist and the other fastened around his neck, there was not a smudge of dirt anywhere on him, though
the cellar dusty. His clothes were perfectly creased and free of wrinkles, and although his face was black and
his eyes were popped, his hair was neatly and correctly combed. Except that the chair upon which Dad had
stood was kicked over, everything in the cellar was in order.�T
Can you not see that AndrewsT life was, from this moment, like that orderly, though dusty, cellar? Its
order was marred by an overturned chair. And from this day, more items would overturn and clutter, leading
36
rer
us to this last day.
With tedious finality, we watch our friend tidy up his affairs. One item which demands attention from
our friend on this, his final day, is a massive conglomerate known affectionately as the oInquiry.� Along with
several other literary endeavors, it lies along the dull walls of his hotel room home, layer after layer, packed in
baskets and crates. If ever completed, the o~thingTT would be properly entitled, ~~An Inquiry into the Life of
Thomas T. Andrews of Cambridge, Maryland (1867-1930), Giving Especial Consideration to His Relations
with His Son, Todd Andrews (1900- ).TT It is, quite simply, a complete study of his fatherTs mind and life from
his birth in the front bedroom to his tragic demise in the cellar, or ~Tfrom the umbilicus that tied him to his
mother to the belt that hanged him from the floor joist.�T
In these final hours, the oInquiry� is closed with the following notations:
1. Nothing has intrinsic value.
Il. The reasons for which people attribute value to things are always ultimately irrational.
Ill, There is, therefore, no ultimate ~~reason�T for valuing anything, including life.
IV. Living is action. ThereTs no final reason for action.
V. ThereTs no final reason for living.
After a well-planned, but futile attempt to do away with himself, better left undescribed here, our friend
and hero dismally revises his last argument to read:
V. ThereTs no final reason for living (or for suicide.)
And so, dear reader, ends the sad or glad saga of Todd Andrews. Let it suffice to say that our friend
settled back into his futility, reopened his ~InquiryT and waited patiently for the marvelous day when that
waning heart would at last fail to rise to the occasion.
But, unfortunately for those of us who have walked with Andrews this day, it is not so easily resolved.
Mr. Barth and his character do not seem to realize that in this furious reality of which we are, one cannot
simply accept the futility of life as does our friend and guide. Rather, we must decide if we are satisfied with
our lives and therefore, wait for that appointed day whenever it may be; or with pomp and circumstance,
march out of this sickness called life. But the choice is left to each man. | have made mine, dear reader. So
farewell...
37
we are of the soil
just this single second
of the air
we stretch out arms to feel it
close to your existence
rub the dust in your skin
eat the rain before it falls
let loose the love in the ashes of the churches
in the rags of lost hours
between your fatherTs life-minute
and your sonTs birth second
there is you
only now
pull the day around you
wear it like a god choosing to be the wind
Gr ond Pinsrognoa hg Crs Soc : Ceiak-
Ranlon » dX Comiag. Pad ain HiBBonb,
oe Mga \le \S- Qa Seon d Bi00
2 ig 26- Mia Yoots "ids de - GG
"". 22,23-6.8 iH 25 - 25h
Sarogun . a 21,195. Ge
Sets SB\ - Bom Glo&tow . 33 - Warroga :
34~ G88 Commgy BY- Bonn Nodtew . 34 -
Bare rose " Qpeoiad ravbste Quan
Pie gee as ron Swakion oh
we Gusto RO Ng, We RetoT . Hraska aac
Burk - Aone |
