Mr. Ferdinand's Fate

Chapter 5: The Detective

 

C. Emerson Copperhead heard a steady rhythmic sound. He opened his eyes. He was in a railway carriage. A man in a bright blue bowler sat opposite him reading the London Times. The man looked up at Emerson and Emerson took the opportunity to ask, "How long have I been asleep? Ten years? Twenty?"

The man huffed and harruffed. "Fifteen minutes, I'd say, milord."

Emerson looked out the window. Oh yes, the Dumphries case. A case! Eddings had told him there was a murder involving some continental royal rubbish of some sort or another, plus some interesting problems involving unconscious acrostics. Eddings had first contacting that Holmes fellow, but changed his mind. Well, anything Holmes can do I can do better.

The train was slowing. Perhaps that's what woke me up. Nearer the destination. It's a pity my amanuensis--what was his name again?--was shot by a jealous wife, pity that. All a misunderstanding....

The train stopped and Emerson got out with just his little black bag to his name. On the platform was just one person: Eddings himself.

"Emerson, it's good to see you again."

"Right-o. Nice to be here. Back in the great game."

Eddings led Emerson to his dog-cart and they both got on. Eddings whipped lightly at his horse Bronco and they were off.

Eddings said, "It's not far."

"Not far indeed. So. A murder."

"The gardener, Ferdinand."

"Yes. And Franz Ferdinand murdered two days ago."

"They may have been related. There's a photograph. With a big moustache."

"Ah, those Austrians, eh? Nothing but trouble."

"Well. Be that as it may, some other odd occurrences have been met."

"Oh? How so?"

"Lady Helen and Lord Dumphries both said non-sensical things."

"How non-sensical?"

"Lady Helen said, 'Double-u-tee-ef' and Lord Dumphries thought there was someone involved named Hitler."

"Someone involved how?"

"As if this character was involved with the war-to-come."

"Is there to be a war?"

"That's what everyone is saying."

"Between whom and whom?"

"Apparently the Germans against everyone else."

"Bad luck! No idea who this 'Hitler' is?"

"None."

"And what's this about an acrostic?"

"It's in a poem by Lady Margaret. She says she didn't put it there."

"So the three of them--the father and his two daughters--have done things that are unexplained and apparently unexplainable."

"On top of the murder."

"Oh yes, the murder. No puzzle there."

"No puzzle there?"

"I suspect there's a gypsy in the area."

Mr. Ferdinand's Fate

Chapter 4: The Acrostic Form

 

A few minutes later, Lady Dumphries said, "But who in the world is T.F., and why is he greeting us?"

Lady Helen said, "I suppose the F. stands for Ferdinand?"

Constable Eddings said, "That seems likely. What was Mr. Ferdinand's first name?"

"Albert."

"Perhaps he had a middle name."

"Servants don't have middle names, silly."

"Quite right, quite right."

"Can I see the poem?"

"I don't think it's fit for the eyes of a Lady."

"Please, I've been on the grounds of Eton College, let me see it."

Constable Eddings reluctantly handed the sheet to Lady Helen. Lady Margaret craned her neck over impolitely. She said, "But...."

Lady Helen blushed as she read. "Oh my! Yes I see it: G-R-E-E-T-I-N-G-F-R-O-M-T-F. 'Bust my nut,' what a curious phrase."

Lady Margaret said, "It means, 'to germinate'. I was thinking of an acrown."

Lady Dumphries said, "What?"

"I wrote this poem, not Mr. Ferdinand."

"Good heavens!"

"It's a nature poem."

"I'll say it's natural!"

Constable Eddings said, "A bit of a red herring, I suppose. Here we were, all thinking ... whatever we were thinking. But why did you employ the acrostic?"

"I didn't employ any acrostic. I've never heard of such a thing before."

"A double red herring!"

Lord Dumphries said, "But still, it's rather unusual for something like that to slip into a poem. You're certain you didn't put it there?"

Lady Margaret said, "Quite certain."

Constable Eddings went to the window so momentously that everyone fell silent and watched. He said, "I believe I know someone in London who could help here. Someone with a grasp of the ... paranormal."

Lady Dumpries said, "What's that?"

"It might be the key to what's going on here. Why the death of two Ferdinands? From whence came the, ah, what was it again?"

"The double-u-tee-ef."

"Yes. And how did this message get into this poem? I think I should be going. I'll send my friend a telegram, and he should be here tomorrow."

Lord Dumphries escorted him to the door. "So, back tomorrow?"

"I believe so. I have examined the body thoroughly. You may dispose of it now."

"Thank you, that's just what we'll do. He may have family somewhere."

"Other than continental nobility."

"Yes, ha-ha. In any case, we should hurry on this, I believe. The war is going to start quite soon, and then we'll all have to concentrate on defeating Hitler!"

Mr. Ferdinand's Fate

Chapter 3: The Sonnet Form

 

Mr. Anders meanwhile proceeded upstairs to the male servant quarters and into the room of Mr. Ferdinand. A bed was there, and a dresser was there, and a crucifix hung on the wall. Mr. Anders opened the dresser and rifled through whites and greys and finally came upon a bundle of paperish materials which he took in hand for sorting. He moved from top to bottom a railroad schedule, a note of recommendation, a passport. Then Mr. Anders had in hand the photograph, here it was, of Mr. Ferdinand with his cousin somewhat removed: drinking large steins in a beer house, leaning together, having a good time, smiling. What a moustache on the cousin! Mr. Anders turned the photograph over--nothing at all was written on the reverse--but in doing so he saw that the next piece of paper had a poem on it. Mr. Anders read it.

Grow green, my heather, past the potted plot

Resigned to you by gardeners pastly famed;

Erect your frondles far and, stopping not,

Erect, inject, the country--unashamed!

The Dumphries Oak has blasted out its corns

In rains of plenty down upon the lawn;

Nor horse nor squirrel 'pon these early morns

Get all the meat before a new life's dawn!

From dust all rose, the plants included are,

Re-making History's urge to fornicate;

O life! fecund my plants! or near or far

Make merry with your natures incarnate!

Twenty seasons makes a lifetime but;

Fourteen lines I've had, to bust my nut!

Mr. Anders took the entirety of the bundle of memorabilia out of the room and went downstairs where there was a curious conversation underway concerning a curious utterance of Lady Helen.

Lady Dumphries said, "But daughter, what is 'double-u-tee-ef'?"

Lady Helen said, "Really, I have no idea. I don't know at all why I said it, and I don't know what it means."

Lord Dumphries said, "Very strange."

"I don't want to get into it now; but I simply cannot remember what I was thinking, or even being at that moment. I'm really of no help whatsoever. Something ... possessed me."

Lord Dumphries noticed Mr. Anders standing there. "Ah!"

Constable Eddings looked too. "You have found the photograph?"

"Yes." He gave the photograph to Constable Eddings. "And I found a curious poem," giving it over to Lord Humphries. "Probably not something to share with the ladies."

Constable Edddings looked at the photo and said, "There is a resemblance." Then he glanced over Lord Dumphries' shoulder to see the poem. "What an unusual poem," he said.

"How so?" asked Lady Dumphries.

"It's an acrostic."

Mr. Ferdinand's Fate

Chapter 2: The Archduke and the Gypsy

 

Constable Eddings paced the library methodically, his right index finger to the tip of his nose, in a silence afforded by the silence of the entire household which was spread out upon settees and chairs: Lord and Lady Dumphries, the Ladies Helen and Margaret, Mrs. Jones and Mr. Anders, Geoffrey, Kent, Conningsbay, Linda, Trudy, Mary, and Nancy. Constable Eddings then spoke aloud.

"So, it seems everyone in the house was with someone else last night. All alibis airtight ... unless there was conspiracy involved, which we must not rule out, not at this stage of the game."

Lady Dumphries sobbed. "Such a horrible murder!"

Constable Eddings nodded. "Yes, Milady, murder most awful. Which much have been committed by someone. Yes, Milady, this is now a house of murder."

Lord Dumphries spoke up. "What do we know about Mr. Ferdinand?"

Constable Eddings said, "Your intonation indicates you have a pointed suspicion."

"As a matter of fact, I do. Did he not have cousins in Austria?"

Trudy laughed lightly, "Oh, that was all poppycock! Related to Austrian nobility. 'Yes,' I said, 'and I'm a red Indian!'"

"What? A nobleman of some sort?"

Mr. Anders said, "Yes. He even showed me a picture once, of himself and a man he called his distant cousin."

"Do you know where that picture is?"

"I believe I can get my hands on it, sir."

"Please do."

Mr. Anders quickly left the room.

Constable Eddings said, "What are you driving at?"

"Did you read the paper today? It seems that yesterday the Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated in Austria. I suspect we are part of an intercontinental conspiracy."

"What an unusual hypothesis. Hmmm, if that is the case, then this murder is beyond my ken."

"How?"

"I know nothing about the continent. However, I believe I know a man in London who could help sort this out."

"A detective?"

"Not a professional detective, no. But he does have great deductive skills when called upon. He's an amateur, but so perceptive."

Trudy said, "I wonder what's taking Mr. Anders so long?"

Lady Dumphries said, "Now, John, that is so unlikely. Do you know what I think? I think this all has to do with that gypsy sighted on the common. There's a gypsy on the common."

"'There's a gypsy on the common,'" said Lady Helen suddenly. "That's, like, so racist, like, double-u-tee-ef?"

Mr. Ferdinand's Fate

Chapter One: June 29, 1914

 

Lord Dumphries stood that morning looking out the bay window of the library of his estate upon so many things: upon the cloudless morning sky and the glowing sun to his right, upon the twisty laneway leading from his estate to the main road (upon which he could see the newspaper delivery boy approaching on bicycle), upon the Dumphries Oak with its eighty-foot trunk in the fullest power of early summer, upon the grasses and hedges kept in such perfect order by the gardener, Mr. Ferdinand, and finally upon the bloody and mutilated corpse of the already-mentioned Mr. Ferdinand off to the right.

The body had been discovered (with some screaming) by Linda the milkmaid while she had been travelling upon her daily duty to the small fowl-flock that provided Lord Dumphries, his wife, and his two daughters with their breakfast meat. The house flew into a disorder not seen since circa the sixteenth century or so. The body was left lying undisturbed in its ghastly condition while Connigsbay the driver sped into town in the automobile in search of Constable Eddings.

Lord Dumphries watched the delivery boy navigate the twists of the laneway. Nothing untoward had taken place the previous evening. Lady Dumphries, Lady Helen, Lady Margaret and himself had played a rubber of bridge before retiring en masse at nine and a half or so. The servants--Linda, Mrs. Jones (head housekeeper), Mr. Anders (butler), Geoffrey and Kent (valet and footman), Trudy, Mary, and Nancy (ladies maids all)--had all accounted for their whereabouts. There had been talk of a gypsy seen on the commons recently....

The delivery boy got off his bicycle and was met by Mr. Anders. The boy had obviously not seen the body, nor did he see the body as he rode off.

Mr. Ferdinand. What was known about Mr. Ferdinand? Perhaps a run-through of his references was in order, for nothing sprang to mind. He was liked by all, and his roses won prizes. A jealous competitor? If so, why such a bloody mess of a murder? Was it a warning? Why shout: "Here is a murder"?

There was a polite knock. "Yes?" It was Mr. Anders with the newspaper, who said, "Something's happened on the continent." Lord Dumphries took up the newspaper. The heir presumptive to the Austro-Hungarian Empire had been assassinated in Sarajevo. His name was (or had been) Franz ... Ferdinand.

Your attention please. Next train to Samarra departing in one second.

I heard tell of a construction worker in Etobicoke who, one day while fixing studs on a building's second floor exterior face, looked down to the road and saw the most delightful of creatures. She was wrapped in a green knee-length coat above white shoes like those of a nurse and her dark hair shone like the moon in daylight. He cried out to her,

 

This love is like a hole in my breast

Where all my heart is bleeding fast.

O maiden, stop to cease this seeping,

Or I will die and leave my parents bereft.

 

The woman looked up at him; her eyes sparkled as she responded

 

I do not know where you get your ideas from;

Is there a shop where you buy potions of presumption?

I'm off to the well to get a single sip of water

And I need no-one to accompany me there.

 

The construction worker gathered her meaning readily, and he fell in a swoon and tumbled off the scaffolding five feet to the ground. He had died, but not from the fall. His parents took his body and buried it, never knowing that it was love and love alone that killed him.

 

*

 

Things That I Used To Do That I Don't Do No More

 

after running around barefoot at Ontario Place's Children's Village being unable to undo a shoelace knot going wandering through the whole place all the way to the pods looking for my mommy to help undo the knot crying all the time

going down Arden Drive's slight hill on brother's bike one afternoon to learn how to ride a bike all alone getting the balance of it

hearing, "I dropped something," in a house being built and reading T.H.'s note--the thing she dropped--reading, "wanna make out?"

being retrieved by my mother from a new friend's house because the new friend was a negro

crushing a boy's thumb in a doorjamb at school because he wouldn't stop bugging us as we rehearsed a playlet of a French folk tale

on the 2nd last day of school lying that a project was complete and having the teacher call mom

speaking a speech about Hitchcock and Psycho and toilets in front of everyone

hiding haircuts in back seats

sliding down a sad banister

collecting money from a paper route--where did I get the nerve to do such a thing?

 

*

 

Due to a complicated matrix of circumstances, I found myself on the road between Algonquin Park and Huntsville with a giant steel-framed knapsack on my back and eighteen cents in my pocket. A car stopped ahead of me, menacingly idling. I got up to the passenger side window and looked in. It was an older stout guy with horn-rimmed glasses. The window rolled down automatically--a pricy option in those days.

He said, "Need a lift?"

"I don't think so; Huntsville can't be that far."

"It's about twenty miles."

"Is it? Well."

"Throw your stuff in the back seat and get in."

Since it was an order, I threw my knapsack in the back seat and got in.

"You're shaking," he said.

"Haven't eaten anything today."

He drove. The summer trees flew by. He said, "I don't think you've accepted too many rides from strangers."

"Never alone."

"I used to do it all the time when I was your age."

"Well, well."

Soon we were in Huntsville crossing the bridge.

"I guess the bus stop?" he asked.

"That would be nice."

He stopped. I got out.

"Here." He handed me fifty dollars.

"Thanks."

He shrugged. "We understand things up here."

 

*

 

AGAINST NATURE

 

[...]

In the following essay, I will bring forth fluorescently three profound reasons why "nature" is inferior to what's known as "culture." You can consider this to be another argument in the long line stretching back to Achilles' shield or thereabouts' arguments. Also note that these arguments are falsifiable and are therefore scientific.

Firstly, I'll consider the valuelessness of "nature". What's it for? Is it worth anything? Maybe in some way, but that valuation is always already based on a viewpoint from "culture." Therefore, "culture" precedes "nature". That's the way it is.

Secondly, I'll make some accounts for the simple boredom of nature. Who in the civilized world would ever want to be stuck out there? A huge number of people are killed from causes that are called "natural," and that there is a dead giveaway as to how dangerous it is. Dangerous and boring. It's both, of course, and that doesn't change this my second point in the least.

Thirdly, there's the question of ethics. "Nature" has no ethics. Just look at how ducks behave to see that they have no ethics. And without ethics, there's no good or bad.

All these points'll be taken up now.

 

*

 

The Fraud of Historical Fiction II

 

ROGER: But electronics, what do I know about electronics? The Wright brothers and me used to triple-date.

PEGGY: I don't think we're done seeing the applications of it. Panasonic is the future.

DON: They need something.... Something from the future. Not just a campaign, billboards, television: they need to advertise ... from the future.

JOAN: And how is that to happen, pray tell?

DON: Trust me, there's something big on the horizon. Has anyone heard of ARPANET? (They shrug.) It's a California thing, very pioneering. They're going to have four computers linked together by telephone, believe it or not.

BERT: And they're looking to advertise, I suppose.

DON: No. We're going to advertise on them.

JOAN: Pretty small market.

PEGGY: Smaller than mine, even.

DON: But it's just the start. One day, everyone will be linked up through ARPANET or a "net" like it.

BERT: Poppycock!

ROGER: You want to advertise on ARPANET?

DON: Why not? "These bits and bites brought to you by Panasonic."

JOAN: How will anyone find out about these advertisements?

DON: Simple.

ROGER: How?

PEGGY: How?

JOAN: How?

BERT: How?

DON: They'll find out about it through their social networks!

 

*

 

Q: I'm glad you could make it.

A: Did I have a choice?

Q: Are you comfortable?

A: Comfortable enough.

Q: Consider it an open opinion poll.

A: Okay.

Q: Who will you be voting for?

A: Rob Ford.

Q: Why?

A: Oh my God, do you really not know? Sometimes it's like.... Sometimes it's like, "Okay, children, gather 'round and I'll tell you the story of Adam Smith and the Wealth of Nations! Once upon a time, there was a man who made pins...." Think I've said enough?

Q: If you say so.

A: Read the rest quietly to yourself.

Q: Moving on. Global warming.

A: Oh my God, do you really not know? Antonio Gramsci, the National Socialists, the fall of the Berlin Wall, all these lazy west-haters stuck saying, "What are we going to complain about now?" "I know, let's gin up something that will stop the progress of life, something that's less bound to fail than communism." Think I've said enough?

Q: If you say so.

A: Bien pensants.

Q: And how's the recovery coming along?

A: Recovery?

Q: The head injury.

A: Oh, that! Still get the dizzy spells if I lie down too long.

 

*

 

Jimmy ran off to the satchel he'd left beside the door when he'd come in. I thought: fatherhood.

"It's something I drew yesterday. I used crayons and pencils!"

He held it out to me proudly. It looked somewhat greasy around the edges so I took it in hand with extreme care.

"Oh my," I said. "It's a train! With three cars and a caboose!"

He shoved me slightly so I'd move over on my chair to give him room in view of his artwork. He shoved his stubby fingers forth. "I drew the outlines with pencil then I filled it in, like in a colouring book."

I raised an eyebrow. "You didn't trace this?"

"No."

"You're sure? You're telling the truth."

"Honour!"

I looked more carefully. "Oh, but there's an obvious problem here."

"What?"

I pointed to the engine's stack. "Smoke doesn't come out of stacks in curlicues."

"It doesn't?"

"Of course not. It rises up and up into the sky."

"Really?"

"Depending on the velocity of the train, the currents in the atmosphere. Things like that."

"No curlicues."

"Never in curlicues, boy."

He looked very serious then. "I made a boo-boo."

"Yes, you did. How's your mother doing anyway?"

 

*

 

When one comes upon a day during which one is invited to envision the rest of the tomorrows to come--which, for many people, is every other day or so--and finds oneself seeing that there may not in fact be that many tomorrows to come, maybe even less than one (for that comes to all men), one may take time to reflect upon all the previous days during which this epiphany has likewise taken place, all the days during which there seemed about to be no tomorrow or even no next hour, and all the trains and buses and loved ones that do not hurry to arrive hence allow one to resume any kind of useful occupation other than idling stupidly, and conclude that (save for existential despair) nothing will ever stop the heart from yearning for the morrow, nothing can salve the regrets of the past, nothing can stop time in its unparalleled constructions, and that one is a failure, a clichéd abject failure, with nothing worth seeing of, loving of, or caring of, with nothing to offer anyone--anyone!--excepting of course every other one, stuck as they likewise are in a world of the indifferent now.

 

*

 

It's good for the soul to be in jail. There's no ambiguity about it. If freedom is an illusion, you're right at home. If it's not, you're taking a vacation from it.

So there I was, in cell 2A, with my new friend Herb. He was mooning through the bars once he'd come out of it, whatever it was. Finally he noticed me, just sitting, drumming my fingers on my green pants. I said, "Howdy."

"Hello," he said. "Got the time?"

"About four."

He looked out moonily again. "What happens now? Do you know?"

"Round about nine they bring us out for a hearing or such. Then, anything can happen."

"Anything?"

"Hyperbole."

He sat down with a creak. "I think I might have socked a cop."

I whistled. "Bad news, my man."

"Maybe there were extenuating circumstances."

"Don't matter none."

He sighed and time passed.

A time later the sun came up and a screw or whatever showed. "Okay, Herb, come with me."

First-name basis.

Herb went through the open door and it got closed behind him with a key-clang.

There's no ambiguity about it. You want advice? I'm here every Friday to Sunday. The price is socking a cop.

 

*

 

NEK RO NOM I KON

 

DO NOT READ ON IF YOU FEAR FOR YOUR SOUL. FOR HERE WITHIN ARE KEYS TO POWER OVER ALL EVIL IN THE UNIVERSE.

BY THE POWERS OF SHUGGOTH, BY THE POWER OF TH'NRISI'KAK OF THE 667 HEADS, BY THE POWERS OF KÅLI THE MAGNIFICENT.

TURN BACK, FOR THE ELEMENTS OBEY THOSE WHO OBEY ME THIS BOOK. O EARTH O WIND O FLAME O WATER ARRANGE YOURSELVES AND PROSTRATE!

READ THE ENCHANTMENTS WITHIN. LOOK FOR GOOD MOONS AND STARS. LOOK FOR TH'NRISI'KAK OF THE MOON. TELL NO-ONE, FOR YOU WILL KILL HIM IN THE END. O SHUGGOTH OF THE DEPTHS!

 

John took the book to the W.H. Smith cash register and paid $5.99 for it.

He slipped it into his coat and left the Eaton Centre bookstore.

Down the escalator, feeling the powerful pulse of the book against his ribs.

He thought: Can God see me? Does he know the Evil of the book I carry against my ribs?

Down went the escalator.

John was terrified.

I must hide the book!

It is too evil for words!

$5.99!

How can this be sold openly?

Out into daylight went he, piqued by contrast of book and universe.

 

*

 

The Spokesman: A Legend of the Old West

 

A stranger drove his covered wagon into town one day and everyone noticed because over his four wheels were draped white linen cloths such that the wheels were invisible. Everyone thought it was curious: even my dog thought it was curious.

He got off his wagon and went to untie his horses. Just then a boy crept forward to lift the cloth. The stranger turned and shot the boy dead.

He called to everyone, "Stay away from my wagon until morning."

Next morning we all gathered to hear him say, "Friends, I have here a patented innovation. I'm looking for some investment capital.

"Your wagons are faulty. The wheels break too easily. And that's because you're using eight spokes."

He lifted one cloth. There we say a wheel that only had seven spokes.

Fester the Drunk called out, "How can it be better with fewer spokes?"

The crowd murmured agreement.

The stranger said, "The vertical pressure of a wagon squishes the wheel horizontally. With seven spokes, the forces are equalized uniformly. Fewer busted wheels."

We shook our heads and left. The stranger left town to seek other investors.

We were so stupid.

 

*

 

The Fappening

(in commemoration of the inaugural day of the Toronto International Film Festival)

 

Hey 'Net, look at me, these are what I knew you would see,

'Cause when I snapped 'em, trapped 'em digitally

I'd planned 'em, knew some day you would scan 'em, in a fappening

Why encrypt? That's not why I'm always unstripped

I'll put on a show forevermore, give me your eyes

Sending south all of your flies, for the fappening

 

I'm so outraged, see me stamp me feet,

Threatening to sue every guy I meet,

This is all about me, so I hope it's not about you

It's a start, it's my art, it's your horse beholding my c**t,

And it gets me wet deep down in my heart

They fappened, obedi'ntly they fappened

 

I'm now all up the news, 'cause of all those TMZ views

Give my all your clicks, you pitiful dicks, and adore me

I'm the one who bewhored me, for this fappening

Now I see myself, just as you see me,

Not some worthless trash, never on TV,

This is all about me, so I hope it's not about you

 

Ooh and then it fappened

Ooh and then it fappened

Fappened

 

-4 September 2014

 

*

 

I was talking on the telephone to work-Jane one late autumn morning when I wasn't scheduled to begin till two-thirty, me idly looking out the patio door at the yard and the pool, we talking about some plans for a Thursday night get-together. Something moved in the sky of my peripheral vision and I glanced up to look at the two enormous power towers on the other side of Adelaide some half-mile away. They were buckling.

"This is weird," I said.

The towers buckled like trees under the weight of snow; the arms of the things drooped down; the electricity lines they bore get taut and snapped.

"Oh my God!"

Together they buckled at their waists and down they both fell, toward me, silently in the morning.

"Two power towers just fell! Get a news crew over here! It's a disaster! They fell on Aspen Court!"

I hung up and went outside and around the block to Aspen Court where I saw that, no, I had been mistaken: they towers were much beyond it.

I ran back to the house. I had to get through to Jane. I had misinformed her. I had misinformed the station. I'd been caught lying.

 

*

 

First my neck was shot through with a cheap bullet and my body fell into a mass grave.

Second my heart weakened and weakened until it simply couldn't keep itself going.

Third my brain froze from a blood clot and one by one the rest of my body failed.

Fourth my blood flowed out around me from an artery severed after an intentional plunge from a bridge.

Fifth my liver was pierced by a dagger made in Florence in 1428.

Sixth my arms and legs were pulled off my torso held in chains during a sex game gone frenzied.

Seventh my skin turned yellow as my kidneys stopped doing what they were supposed to do.

Eighth my guts spilled out from a scimitar slash made by a fierce Turk.

Ninth my veins froze somewhere lost in the arctic while a dog howled and shivered.

Tenth my eyes blind my ears dead I entered a dark silence from within a dark silence.

Eleventh my bones were crushed when I fell from an airplane in the sky.

Twelfth my lungs filled with water during a storm near Madagascar.

Neck, heart, brain, blood, liver, arms, legs, skin, guts, veins, eyes, ears, bones, lungs.

 

*

 

Ah Mexico, Land of Romance!

 

O muse, sing now of wrinkle-free young-uns,

Of mainly crazy deeds done for a thousand

Generations, sing now of madnesses

Not quite as warnings, not only that, but also

Make a mark upon the moon and keep

An eye upon it as it slowly waxes

Or wanes occluding your imagined mark.

They met, both mad, both virginal,

Both having read of roads not travelled (much),

Unhappy pair and middling-classed and one

Said something high or drunkenly one night

About a trip to Mexico. The pact was made,

It seemed a thing to do so right there was

No way to turn around the passion ship

And sail safely back to bourgeois world.

And why, who knew? perhaps they'd die out there,

Gunned down or starvéd under a volcano

But still in love with life the puddle-splash;

They quit their jobs and pooled their funds, enough

To take the bus across the states with like

Three hundred dollars left to spend in all;

But then, before they left, one got cold feet

And everything fell apart so silently.

They got jobs again. They found places to live.

And that's how they became friends for a while.

 

*

 

I was nuts about this girl named Sue so I went her see her father, the Caliph Harun al-Rashid.

"So you want to marry my daughter, eh?"

"If that's what it takes, yes."

"You have to prove yourself. Listen up. Find the Onyx Mountain on the island called China. Ascend it. There you'll find a door that opens with a prayer. In the seventh chamber you'll see a sleeping woman beautiful as the moon wearing a gold ring. Take the ring from her finger and rub it three times. A raak will swoop down and carry you three months afar in an single hour. Defeat Treashi the Invincible and bring back to me his talismanic robes. Then you can marry Sue."

I went off to the island called China and ascended the Onyx Mountain, opened a door with a prayer, proceeded to the seventh chamber, took the ring from the sleeping woman beautiful as the moon, rubbed it, was carried by a raak to Treashi whom I slayed, and brought talismanic robes back to Harun al-Rashid.

Astonished, he said, "What are these?"

"Talismanic robes."

"But, I was just making all that up!"

I waited a beat. "And your point is?"

 

*

 

Harold looked up and blinked. The date appeared, floating before his eyes. July 8, 123456.

He climbed out of bed and took a hangover nano and the hangover was gone. He slipped his feet into his slippers and the maid appeared with escargot, chocolate, and baked ostrich eggs.

"Thanks, Emma."

She smiled electronically and sincerely and said, "Will there be anything special today? It's your birthday. You're fifty today."

"I don't think so."

"Not even a blow job?"

"I don't think so."

She smiled. "Let me know if you change your mind."

"I will."

She left with a sexy hum.

Harold ate. He looked out the window--a perfect day. Really nice. He blinked and the speakers came on.

"And today is one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight day!" chirped the robot on the radio.

Harold blinked the speakers off.

He decided to go outside and go outside he did.

Everything was perfect. What a world, what a perfect world. How did it happen?

It doesn't affect my soul, now does it?

He blinked and Emma appeared.

"Bourbon, Emma."

"Here you are."

"Thanks."

Harold drank the bourbon. The grass was green and perfect. He touched his chest, at his heart. There was nothing to want.

 

*

 

Walking like a meander

Breathing like the air

Sleeping as a dream

Talking like your words

Perambulating like a perambulator

Signifying like a signpost

Operating like an incision

Listening as a waveform

Running like an acceleration

Searching as the missing

Driving like a wheel

Writing as single words

Seeing as an object

Announcing like a loudspeaker

Announcing like a loudspeaker

Rocking as ten stones

Listening like an earphone

Sexting like a champion

Ingesting like an oesophagus

Naturalizing as a fern

Praying like a prayer

Terrifying as a fright

Officiating like a numismatist

Fine-tuning as an art

Incorporating like fat men

Tasting like a dog

Ravishing as a caress

Gouaching like a mural

Intensifying as an adverb

Multiplying like a table

Typing like a type-writer

Rolling as a river

Sleeping like a pillow

Alternating like the current

Touching as a fingertip

Insouciant as the carefree

Smelling like an odour

Jumping like a stile

Dumping as the truck

Living like your blood

Eating like a mouncher

Liking as the weather

Inspecting like nobody's business

Contaminating as the worm

Undeciding like a decider

Delivering as a mailbox

Protagonating like an extra

Considering of the coffee

Delaying from the heart

Making of the language

 

*

 

I've started watching this terrific science fiction series. In it, a group of minds from the early 21st century manage to somehow project themselves back about a century into the heads of a bunch of British people in a place called Downton Abbey. Now they can't really influence a whole lot of stuff back there, but they sure do make comments about the situation! They talk about all the 21st century obsessions!

I can see where the show is going. Somehow at some point some character will find himself talking about something that he knows nothing about; he'll make some slip, some reference to, I don't know, Hitler or something. The other characters--the parts of their heads that aren't inhabited by the people from the future--will find this funny and strange. Then it'll happen again and again as the characters figure out that they're being colonized by people from some distant future.

That's just as far as I've figured it out so far. I don't know how the science fiction writers will resolve it. I haven't read enough science fiction, I guess. In any case, it's top notch. Phildickian, really. Maybe someone's inhabiting the head of his grandpa!

 

*

 

Bluesfolk

 

Hambone threw open the closet door, encircled all the dime-store dresses with his right arm and yanked them out while the hangers clattered to the wood floor. Over to the window he went to throw them out, down to the pavement and the brownstone's steps. "Thinks she can jellyroll another daddy, does she?"

He was heading to her drawer when a familiar voice came through the window. "Hambone! What are you doing? You dirty broke-dick dog!"

She was in the apartment in no time. There was a struggle. "Two-timing bitch!" "And what about you, catting around with the sweet petunias all the time?" "I can't believe it! Rufus of all dudes!"

She grabbed his metal-body guitar, his capos, his slide-knife, and his bottle-slide and threw it out the window.

He grabbed up her spoon, her cotton, her syringe, and her smack and threw it all out the window.

She started to cry. "Oh, Hambone, you're the only man for me, I swear!"

Hambone tore apart the kitchen. "Goddamn piano playing son-of-a-bitch!"

"Hambone, honey, come in here."

They reconciled, and rocked it all night long, finally to sleep at five. Hambone's last thought was they should never have left Julliard.

 

*

 

Cowboys

 

I could see his face by then, and the fire got dimmer as the sun rose. All night long we'd talked, telling stories and jokes, some true, some not, some inbetween. I wasn't tired at all, and I wouldn't be tired all day long.

"I guess we'd best start up some cooking. The others'll be hungry when they wake, an' we ain't doing much atall."

"I hear ya."

So we got out the skittles and the pots and did the beans and bacon. The other fellows awoke and ate. Not much talk from them.

Curious it was, my guys heading east and his guys heading west, meeting there in a territory gully. We were heading to the next drive; he and his, well, I hadn't asked.

We all pack up our gear and stuff and saddlebagged them and then we were all on our horses, in two rows, facing one another. Somehow my conversationalist and me would up face-to-face in the middle, like it was all meant to be symmetrical.

I asked, "So where you all headed anyhow?"

He said, "We got an appointment in Samarra."

"Never heard of it."

He smiled. "Look it up."

They all rode off.