The Paris Review

The madhouse statuary seemed to dispel the pre-life 
      we gave it. 
in sleep, to become the one bauble rescued from that 
      hoard, whose shapes 
no one now will know. It cannot be said they existed. 
      Yet 
surely there was life, once in those seams, life the 
      daughters of the iron teeth 
of time gave it, and swallows flew over it. One might 
      say, casually, 
that there was variation in it, that there was texture. 
      More, though, 
one still couldn’t say. Yet one day the sanitation 
      department decreed 
it was coming through, a nice day in May with the 
      usual blossoms, though these 
were only accessories, having no bearing on the tale or 
its context, petal-like, in fact, like a cat’s nose, but the 
      judge 
happened by just then and told them to stop it. They 
      went away and someone, 
a bushy-haired man, came back and said it was OK, 
      they could keep on doing it 
if they wanted to, but not to say he said so, but that it 
      was OK. 
I long meanwhile for the confines of any other 
      principality, but can’t abandon 
working even if I wanted to, it’s like play to me 
      though I get no pleasure from it 
except pausing at odd moments to watch the rill for a 
      few seconds, 
and then it’s back to work again, more work, lots of 
      it, and the pollution 
attendant on it, like Hebe to the rainbow’s gauzy 
      showers, or web, and I 
can’t stand on tradition nor beside it. Here it suits 
      me, boys, to turn 
over a new leaf like a chunk of recalcitrant granite. I 
      know no other gadfly 
who berates me so much; I love it; the woman came 
      back to say she was in the way 
and would we go away please it was four o’clock. Not 
      on your life thundered the 
hangman, and so it became a kind of ritual, then a 
      game, and every day 
someone came to ask after the stone, and someone 
      would stand up to say 
it has gone away, go lose yourself in studies or the 
      wilderness; 
more none can say. He just came up that day, 
had a look round, and left. We aren’t even sure 
we saw him. It could have been wildflowers in the 
      wallpaper 
or stray ashes in the grate, no more. Then the bird 
      came back and shat 
on the stone, and that proved it was there for awhile, 
      but somehow 
that got forgotten and we were thrust out of doors to 
      play in the rain 
and sleet, and somebody got hold of the key, we 
      entered, and presto, no one 
was there, it was a different room, another empty one 
too, and had 
obviously been vacated pretty recently. A smell of 
      kippers 
hung in the front hall. OK, I said, we must press on to 
      the last house 
they were seen in in the next block. The green 
      cement one. But my 
companions whispered why, let’s ditch him at the first 
      opportunity, no 
let’s not even wait that long, which is why I came 
      across the lawn bruised 
and moist, and trembling with pity to be let in, and 
      you came 
and let me in. Nowhere did I have anything to say 
      again, but that 
was not noticed until yesterday, too late to have us do 
      anything about it. 
One source said it was the tulips, against the nice 
      gesture to be led and fed 
and have others shut up about it. But one said, you 
      can’t have that 
and not condone the listless others who don’t know 
      yet they’re walking 
in your tracks and will be sorry when they find out, 
      but another man joined 
the woman and said you could too talk about it, it was 
      just a subject 
and therefore forgotten, i.e. dead. And Joan she said 
too it was like being dead only she didn’t care, she 
      might as well be anyway, for all 
she cared, and then someone came back with beef. 
      And said here 
put a rose on this, you’re not afraid, you do it, and 
      someone said, O if the law 
decree it he must do it. So the one went in and the 
      others stayed out and waited. 
And if you’re not going to do it, and if it’s none of 
      your business, why are 
you going to do it, the first one said, to which that 
      one said: begone. You are my 
business in any case and it behooves me not to be in 
      the shadow of you 
while I wait. And then one who came from a great 
      distance said, why does it suit you 
to be ornery, if others cannot join the general 
      purgative exodus, to which that one inside 
said, and so it becomes you, if it become you. And 
      then in the shade they put their heads 
together, and one comes back, the others being a little 
      way off, and says, who 
do you think taught you to disobey in the first place? 
      And he says, my father. 
And at that they were all struck dumb 
And left that place falling all over each other 
in their haste to get away, and it was all over for that 
      day. 
But another day came and the rice was still laying 
on the ground, next to the dust ball. And one took it 
      up, saying, 
this is all that shall be till I get back from my trip. 
And the others were amused because he had never 
      mentioned a trip before, 
but he spat at them, saying, you are too powerful now 
      for my injunction to take hold, 
but just wait till the others see you in my chamois 
      costume, because if you think it’s too late 
now what will you think when it has gotten really out 
      of hand 
like a vine that grows and grows and cannot stop 
      growing, or a fire 
deep in a coal mine that burns for centuries before 
      anyone can do anything 
about it. So he stepped down at last. And the others, 
      charred 
and unrecognizable, concurred that something 
      extraordinary had taken place and that there 
was nothing to be done about it. And so he went 
      away. 

Love that lasts a minute like a filter 
on a faucet, love that is always like headlights in the 
      glistening dark, heed 
the pen’s screech. Do no read what is written. In 
      time 
it too shall become incoherent but for the time being 
      it is good 
just to tamper with it and be off, lest someone see 
      you. And when this veil 
of twisted creeper is parted, and the listing tundra is 
      revealed 
behind it, say why you had come to say it: the 
      divorce. The no reason, as 
the plane dives up into the sky and is lost. All that 
      one had so carefully polished 
and preserved, arranged in rows, boasted modestly to 
      the neighbors about, 
is going and there is nothing, repeat nothing, to take 
      its place. Only should we 
wander a bit and then return without expectations, 
      does some faint impulse twitch at its 
base before expiring, and a lesbian truth rise up for a 
      post-mortem arrangement 
until the rabble of the skies cries and all is assumed to 
      be productive. 
Get your ass out of here. But it is time 
to work again, but a sad, a tragic time, a time of 
      trifles 
and vast snowbanks, and so 
you put on your hat backwards and decipher it again 
      dutifully; it’s the home stretch 
but dare I say more before you think it’s time to go 
      and they think so 
but they say only, is no more time to stay here, in any 
      case we would have gone 
if we knew where to go, but we have a place to go, 
      so we will go there. And behind 
the barn it behooves us again to take up the principle, 
      so like the art 
of tragedy and so unlike, and so we let it rest 
      carefully, and someone says 
he would like to be off, and the others agree, it 
      ignites a general stampede 
before the clock closes down. In the old corners of 
      why the situation 
was ever allowed to come into existence in the first 
      place, the nasal whining 
is first heard, then perturbed groans and idle retreats 
      into shuttered 
middle distances and auxiliary alcoves. Aw, shucks, 
      someone 
seems to be repeating, we could stay here all night if 
      we wanted to 
but that couldn’t bring the child back into being, and 
      I say, I suppose so. 
One’s gone for some grants. Be back 
when the coal trestle is finished, and idle 
against the apricot lamé of the distance here. And 
      boys I know 
the distance between your empty bellies and the jobs 
      that will not fill them, 
but I still maintain you are better here, but better off 
      far from here 
where the choo-choo whistles and a deadly white 
      wind stoops to take a few prisoners, 
where we shall be pleasant once the future has had its 
      way with us. And you know, 
he said, sure, that’s the way to hell and its 
      conundrums if that’s the way 
you want to go, and they all said we know, we are 
      going that way 
cautiously approved of in the introduction, only it 
      seems so full of asperities now. 
And he said that’s they way it was, it was a tangle and 
      will never be anything 
more than a diagram pointing you in a senseless 
      direction toward yourself. 
Sure, they come with snacks you have foreseen, 
but that doesn’t excuse you for having been caught in 
      this place. And they all said 
giddyap, let’s go on to the next 
place on the side, for having won, and being here to 
      count up our winnings, which are 
surely all right with us. Watch it, he said. 

So the initial exuberance departed. But that was all 
      right, because surely 
the beginning of a festival is a nice place to be, if it’s 
      Asia, and more hogs 
were brought down. But when he saw the hogs, the 
      owner of the grain elevator was angry 
and went out. Now, there were two others who were 
      there. And they were 
each determined to get what was coming to them. 
      The master returning, said OK boys, 
never let it be said you didn’t ask for it. And in that 
       moment a fuzz of bloom 
was on them. Each spring the desert comes alive with 
      birds and flowers, 
a breathtaking view at the foot of the framed 
      Superstition Mountains, 
reported home of the Lost Dutchman Mine with its 
      still undiscovered caches of gold. 
And all around it is fine too. The mineral springs I 
      wanted so much to exploit—what 
does any of it matter now, now that I have found my 
      home in a narrow cleft 
stained with Indian paintbrush and boar’s blood, from 
      which an avenue eventually leads 
to the flatter, more civilized places I have no quarrel 
      with either. After all, 
we have to go in once or twice a month to pick up 
      supplies, the few 
articles we don’t grow such as coffee, to which I’m 
      still addicted by the way, and 
records too from a local music shop, which are 
      important to have—no man 
needs to live by his own law in the wilderness after 
      all, but even if he is going 
to try it is best not to let the old world slip too 
      casually. Rather it should come about 
naturally, without too much fuss or horn tooting. And 
      then, by and by, if he sees 
he likes it, why then there is always time to make 
      such decisions later on as regards 
one’s insurance, and such, and peter out from 
      there—trickle accurately 
into the sand so that each drop is utilized to the max, 
      and then we’ll see 
how the desert is improving—only “improve” is a 
      word I don’t want to use too much 
either. For after all everything is good of its kind to 
      start with. It’s all a 
question only of finding out what the kind is and 
      letting the thing ferment 
in its own bile for a few decades. By then 
it should become apparent to whomever has been 
      watching how much the land owes us, 
and how we re-distribute it wisely, if only we ever 
      stop to think about it. Don’t 
you agree? I mean, don’t you see the silhouetted 
      foothills too? How bland and discordant, 
yet after all how deeply satisfying in one’s rage—and 
      then too the pods fall off 
all at once eventually, and must rot 
if the seeds are to get into the ground, providing they 
      are still alive and haven’t rotted too. 
So in all ways I think it’s a question of a man 
      coming—he had 
a chicken or something on his arm. And when he 
      arrived, the expected salutation 
rang out like a shot; people took cover. I don’t mean 
I did, though, I stood up to him, just like a man, the 
      man I was, or is, and he, he just 
looked back at me, kind of funny and defiant-like, but 
      he wuz saying nothing. 
Too smart for that.