It’s all right there in front of you. It’s all right there, so go ahead, take it, have a taste. Go on now. The city’s behind you. Can’t you feel it? Not L.A. I said city, not mushroom. How about Chicago? If you try telling me Chicago’s spread out, well, not compared to L.A. it’s not. I can feel that kind of city, and I feel it right now, especially when I think of late fall and the cold’s come in and you’re nigh a main thoroughfare and your lungs fill with exhaust from the bus, automobiles, electric dryness of trains, and vapor from manholes and gutters. Funny, the city has nothing to do with what’s in front of me. I don’t know how it came to be the city’s mate is the woman? It’s not like we’re dealing with the pairing of socks, here. Having said that, don’t look down. No, it’s not a trick. One foot is cassocked black. The other is white. Quite the fashion statement, there. The job gets done. Sure, you can expect a jeer from the prep. Still, city and woman? If I took a stab it’d be I feel I’m working for something. You’ll pardon me if that’s hauteur. I don’t mean it that way. I mean something else, like faces stepping off boats, footsteps, too. Some of those very footsteps have remained untouched, I bet, all this time, untouched by any other footstep, meaning no one footstep has now or since has been stubbed. Brailled by rain, snow, sun, O.K., but touched only if the wind has dragged an article, a tote. Things change on a dime. They do with me. If I had to say again why it’d be I’m lonesome, that I’ve felt the city, I’ve felt the woman, I’ve felt them both at once, I’ve felt them discretely. Working for something sounds better. I should just stick with that and not mind what they say. She’s from Reykjavik. She’s irreverent. Nothing from her adolescence has yet burned from her face. It’s corpulent. It smacks of a girl living under dada’s roof. Yes, she likes fish, and akvavit. She’s brusque. That’s confidence. She’s actually sweet. Use the chalk, I said. This is what she wrote:
I love you; Rub my spine; Yes, to the trash with the leftovers; Close the door; I miss my crazy mother.
Her father had land. He operated an establishment. Reykjavik’s not the same woman when it comes to the city. That’s Olivia. Olivia’s the one who hides freckles. I have seen her naked. First it was her face after she lathered soap for washing. Brown dots brought out depth and charge to her sockets and bridge. I am reticent. Then there’s necessity. I said, Olivia, you shouldn’t smoke so much, and sleep a while longer. She disrobed. Then, as sidecar to the motorbike, her face, in front of the blinds, in vertical light, her décolleté did confirm they were speeders of the motorway, enjoyers of the expanse. Does the face…, I began. Nothing. The face, I told myself, is always the driver. There it is, you ox, right in front of you. I can only go so far. Olivia and her valuables on the floor. Is it just at my house? Effects- earrings, rings, a black necklace, a wristwatch- are over there on the ground by the electric outlet, the twin ghosts. Olivia and her music; a sort of classical meets pump organ and computer. It’s playing now. It’s happening live. The reception isn’t bad. My attention collects. She speaks. Her mouth, it turns. “Call them what you want,” she said. I’m pretty sure we were in the moment. I called them breasts. She wanted something else. What, bust? That didn’t do. Bosom? Uh-uh. Olivia, I could fall asleep with your voice. The one from Reykjavik, hers has the tone of a witch’s anathemas. Not Olivia. Hers is furry. It’s coming, Olivia said, the attack of the violin! I like the attack. We listened. It sounded good and fake. Her mouth turned again. I never did want to go any farther. Olivia remains right there. So will the city, and all those lights and things going off. Olivia’s looking at me. She rests on her front side. Miasma, fill the cups in the cabinets, why don’t ya. I will save her for later. For now, let me settle for silk over skin, curtains for lips. I get her smiling teeth and derriere. I know, and she knows, that they want to be fulfilled. I know, but she does not know, I am not the one. It is all connected. One hand to the curb. One hand to the heart. Leggings shift. One black, one white! Who do you think you are? It’s the prep. No one, I say. He laughs. They laugh. I hold. I think, Who do you think you are? Where’s the emphasis? The who, the think, the first or second you? I do not emphasize the no. I do not emphasize the one. I want to mention the word vicus. Shrunk & White say not to put on airs. Again, who do you think you are? No one, I say, and I rise and back up into the alley. Then the bus comes. I have three quarters. One has a buffalo. One has a drummer. I think one has a peach tree. I will stand to lose them. I am at the house. The transom’s ajar. Mrs. Huck is home. “Come in,” she says. “Should I take off my shoes?” “Don’t bother. Red Wings, I know they can take forever. Come in,” she says. Everything’s light green, white, mint, and tea’s on the table. I can’t smell the tea. Everything’s light green, white, and mint, yeah, but where’s that orange coming from? Even through the orange I can tell the smoke. There’s one unattended now. I am thinking one thing and taking in something different. “Won’t you sit.” “Thanks, Mrs. Huck.” Now, I’m expecting the cat to bark. Thinking one thing and taking in something different. Where’s the melody? There it is. And the lines?
The bartender’s singing Clementine
While he’s turning around the open sign
“It was war-time. Harold was dead. We didn’t know. Kelly wasn’t born. Gary had the colic. Rita was 2. Virginia, Harold’s mother, was living with us. She was disciplined. She helped with the cooking and the kids, and every evening we’d sit with her in the living room and listened to the broadcast. Virginia otherwise loved reading and smoking.” There’s a pause. “Virginia would play bridge with her potluck. I liked Mrs. Renford best. Connie was her name. My, she was so delightful, so gentle in her way, and natural, too. She was handsome. She never let on she was smarter than the rest, but you know what? She was smarter than the rest. Virginia was smart, too.” There’s a pause. “Virginia was disciplined.” The cat’s at the arm of the chair. The chair is difficult. Skin and bone have had enough time. My coccyx is irritated. The chair is katalox. I shift to itch my coccyx. The cat’s at the arm of the chair. Any minute now I’m expecting a bark. Please, I send out in the ether, prove me wrong. There comes a ding from the kitchen. Mrs. Huck is pleasant. She must tend to something. It won’t take a second. There are pictures on the wall. That clock couldn’t be louder. Damn that thing! Cat, don’t bark. Candies in the crystal, how long have you been there? I’d pick at one. I know that one would be fastened to the whole lot. It would be a ball. They look good, though. They’re assorted. It’s hot in this place. No wonder. It’s a windless day. I don’t want to ask Mrs. Huck to turn on the air. There is no air. I don’t want to stay long. I must get back to the city. The cat meows. Thank God. Mrs. Huck says the rinds in the pie need extra cooling before the pie can be masticated. I think that’s what she said. I say, I didn’t know there’d be pie. Well, you do now, she says. The city will have to wait. Do you like fruit pie, she asks. I say, Is there any other kind. The cigarette remains unattended. Something hits me. There’s a third party. The city is behind you, sure, but, presently, Virginia is, too. She’s eons. Oh, I said, I didn’t notice you sitting there. She’s got dementia, Mrs. Huck says from the kitchen, so don’t bother. Virginia’s beady little eyes make me feel undesirable. They fall to my boots. Great, she must think I am without manners. I’ll win her over. Don’t you look nice in your olive dress, Miss Virginia, I say. You blend right in with everything, don’t you. I have to help her smoke, Mrs. Huck says returning to her seat. It’s the only thing that keeps her alive. What, smoking, I say. Yes, that and Coke, Mrs. Huck says, though I’m afraid it has added to the putrefaction of human life. What, Coke, I ask. The combination, Mrs. Huck says tapping off the ash, bringing the butt to Miss Virginia’s quaking lips. All of her smarts have settled there. I am no great interviewer. I know very little. I am only moved to do very few and certain things. Give me a rock. No, not those pebbles of tar. Nor the white landscaping ones. Nor the porous ones I found in your yard, although those ones would reshape my calloused feet. When I ask, Give me a rock, those simply won’t do. I’m looking for something smooth, something the size of a loonie. When I ask, Give me a rock, I don’t want you to find me a rock. No man can choose another man’s rock. Let him wander. Let me. There is no city. I am in an open field. I hear the finches. They are nowhere. The wild bulghur is combed-over. I should faggot some for later soaking. I must remain faithful to my mission. Who knows how much time is left. My pockets, they’re darned from the very same fabric used to make your heav’nly bed. My pockets are stalwart. My hands go deep. Not to my sex. Just half-ways. Just to my wrists. I will not go deeper. There’s a pool. A lean-to. It is covered with little bodies. They are Canadian Soldiers. Look closely. Do you see? They are at rest. Closer. It is only their skin. I am sad. There is no one else around, but water. It’s got to be fresh. I am tired. I am thirsting. There’re somethings in the pool. The pool drops. The somethings see me at the edge. They go deeper. For them there s no limit. The water is fresh. Ladles, make me physically powerful. One brings silt. Another brings stone. There’s my stone. It is smooth. Let me recline in the parting bulghur to suck on my stone.