The Collected Short Fiction
Page 124
Do the winters there, in this degenerate little town, pile their weighty snow upon the roofs of those tilting houses?"
So many question about this secret place.
But as long as such questions are asked,
and countless answers are offered,
the greatest secret will always remain protected,
for no questions will ever be asked,
no answers will ever be allowed
concerning those diseased faces
that have gazed forever
behind the glass of grimy windows.
Like every phenomenon
that we cannot fully face,
this degenerate little town
must remain a cult in its essence
and serve as a limit
for such as we care to know
about what is beyond
the blackness of night
or what is deep in our bones,
for like every phenomenon
that we have actually come to face
this degenerate little town
can only pain us,
adding to our lives
a mere surplus of the pains
we have known so well
throughout the agonised ages
of a degenerate creation.
But like no other phenomenon
that we have ever faced,
this degenerate little town,
under its rotting sky,
standing upon decayed ground--
a landscape of a pain
that is like no other--
may be our last hope,
the only hope we have
of killing all the hopes
we have ever had
and murdering every mystery
we have ever cherished,
so that we may step forth, finally,
into that great shining kingdom
of which we have always dreamed.
It may be quite likely
that we are grotesquely mistaken
to think there is anything special,
anything remarkable at all,
about this degenerate little town.
Far from being the greatest secret,
the worst or the finest of all our dreams,
it may be quite likely
the greatest commonplace,
the supreme banality.
Consider the possibility.
Who among us
have not found ourselves
beneath a rotting sky?
A sky broken and rotting
from what has been heaped up to it
during every epic of this earth,
this ground that is miles deep
with the decay of everything
that has ever lived upon it.
Who has not traveled
through twisted streets,
and under the shadow of houses,
even the straightest of which,
if our eyes could only see it,
is veering towards to tilt?
As for diseased faces,
they are ever prevailing
to the point of embarrassment.
And so much for this civic marvel
that is beyond the blackness of night,
or resides deep in our bones.
Yet if this is the case,
as it quite likely may be,
what remains for us in a universe
where there is nothing special,
nothing of any account,
let alone the saving miracle
of this degenerate little town?
It seems entirely natural that,
should anyone gain full knowledge
of this degenerate little town,
they would deny the truth
of this greatest, most terrible of secrets -
and, as a consequence,
as an act of self-protection,
would fabricate some other
set of circumstances,
a more companionable picture
of the way of things.
This would explain so many
of the deranged idols and beliefs
that have arisen in our world.
At least we would be able to account
for the multitudes of Mannequin Saviours,
as one might view them -
their faces smooth and serene
behind display windows,
welcoming the faithful who,
upon their death,
will enter a department-store paradise
of the most vague and intangible delights.
And some mention must be made
of what might be called
the Sect of the Puppetlands,
whose highly deranged adherents
posit a transcendent universe
of infinite and harmless antics
that are imperfectly mirrored
in the chaos and crises of our own world,
which, in any case, will end nicely
when the Great Puppet Play is concluded
in a sweet bedtime of slumber...
until the next show begins.
Yet, who would begrudge anyone
the denials or alternate renderings
of the twisted streets and tilting houses
the diseased faces and grimy windows of
this degenerate little town,
which itself seems so perfectly bleak,
so in tune with the world we know
forever inclined to ever greater degeneracy
that even the few enlightened ones among us
sometimes doubt it to be real.
We sometimes imagine
that we have heard voices.
Strange and harsh voices,
faintly calling from beyond
the blackness of night
or from deep in our bones.
And even if there are no actual words,
no actual language we know
in which the voices speak,
still there is a terrible understanding
delivered into our world
that only a few may comprehend,
and none would desire,
for this understanding,
this message of strange harsh voices
from beyond the blackness of night,
or from deep in our bones,
declares that this degenerate little town,
that greatest of secrets,
is only a facade
or a mirage,
a picturesque lie
or illusion
in the guise of twisted streets and tilting houses,
all the rottenness and disease which we sense
as the source of all the things we know
or can ever know
when in fact there is something else altogether,
something which none could comprehend,
or desire to comprehend,
yet which they cannot fail to hear
when it slips through the sounds
of those strange and harsh voices,
when it drifts through
during the briefest moments of silence
and from beyond the blackness of night,
or from deep in our bones
comes forth as the hollow resonance
of a most dismal laughter.
Even though there is no evidence
that a degenerate little town
forms the greatest secret
and is the source
of all the things we know
its truth and its existence remain assured
and there do seem to be certain indications
certain aspects and elements of our lives
that in no uncertain terms
inform us of one fact:
sooner or later we will find ourselves
in this degenerate little town
whether we wish to go there or not.
Because when the sky
begi
ns to darken,
as if rotting before our eyes,
and when our bones
begin to change,
growing soft with decay,
we know that all the ways
of our lives
have been leading us,
and can only lead us,
to this degenerate little town.
And then we may understand
that everything around us,
everything within us,
has a direct point of contact
to that secret place,
that source of all things.
Dreams, for instance,
the dreams of our sleep
wherein every mind is destined
to go twisted and tilting
into lands of swift magic.
These dreams alone would make the case -
if anything were ever needed
in the way of evidence.
These dreams alone
would put us in close view
of those grimy windows
behind which diseased faces
peek out through the glass,
as if they are waiting for
someone to arrive -
as if they are waiting
for everyone, sooner or later,
to enter their little town.
Death Poems (2004)
First published as Death Poems, 2004, in a limited edition hardcover issue of 333 un-numbered copies.
Here You Go
Death is frightening,
and dying just as bad.
Say what you will,
we don’t take it well.
Then how can we live,
with all that ahead?
Something must be
fooling us constantly.
Our brains are tricked
so that we don’t believe,
for whatever reason,
we won’t go on and on.
Our thoughts are clouded
so that we can’t conceive
the exact process
that’s waiting for us.
Or perhaps we think that
when the moment comes
someone else will arrive
to take over-we’ll survive.
Where logic is concerned,
we’re all thumbs.
How couldn’t we know
we were born to go?
Growing Up
They said it was all good,
the way that things were.
But you were very young,
and said they were lying.
They said it was for the best,
the suffering was all over.
You were older now and
the best seemed not very good.
They said there was nothing
more they could do for you.
“Good,” you said, old enough
to know the way things were
Usefulness
You can use death to
achieve goals in life.
For example, you can
kill people for hire.
On the other hand,
you can try to save people for hire…
and get paid whether
or not they die on you.
On a larger scale, there’s
the funeral industry,
equipment for making war,
pharmaceutical products
for keeping us alive,
safety measures that leave
you injured but not dead.
All of these are vital
goods and services and
therefore quite lucrative.
All of them are based
on death or the threat
of death-death’s reality.
The food you need
so that you don’t starve.
The very air you breathe
and the water you drink,
which need to be held
to standards of deadliness.
It costs plenty to keep
us from killing ourselves
and in the process
millions of people gain
a very comfortable living.
Despite its drawbacks,
death can come in handy.
Sometimes it may even seem
all the world lives on death.
Memories
Countless memories
are stored in your brain.
Sometimes they rise up
again and again.
Sometimes they just stay
deep in the fleshy darkness.
Eventually you yourself
become only a memory
that either rises up
again and again
or remains deep
in the brain of another.
Only after everyone
who ever remembered you
is gone for good and all
does the terrible insanity
that once bore your name
achieve a true oblivion.
Good-bye.
Weather Conditions
On some days it’s so hot.
On other days it’s so cold.
Hot, hot, hot.
Cold, cold, cold.
Finally the word goes out
for you to settle down
in your narrow bed
where you will be comfortable
forever.
Going Ahead
After you’re gone,
you instantly begin
to fall behind those
who survived you.
As the days pass,
new things happen
to those survivors
and also in the world.
After you’re gone,
you can’t keep up
with the latest events:
you’re out of touch.
So you fall behind
farther and farther,
left in the dust while
others charge ahead.
Losing Customers
They asked for you on the phone,
but you didn’t take the call.
They sent you a nice letter,
but you didn’t reply.
So your name was dropped
from the list after another.
No one wants to bother with somebody
who can’t be troubled about
a very special one-time offer
(with a money-back guarantee).
No one has the time to go looking
For you over every inch of the earth.
Safety in Numbers
There are plenty more people
than there were at one time.
And plenty more are coming.
It’s as if something inside them
is always screaming in an urgent
voice: more, more, more, more.
Or maybe it’s like waiting in line.
Everyone feels better if they see
more are behind them than in front.
“That makes sense,” you think
as you make your way forward
and soon find that you’re next.
Means to an End
Only one way
to arrive
(that swollen body)
yet so many ways
to leave.
You could spend
your whole life
counting those ways,
thinking about them.
But you can never
know the way
you will take
until it takes you.
It’s very strange
That’s for sure.
Smaller
One by one,
over the years,
they went their way.
Each of them
departed without
much shout or show.
As the group
became smaller,
you hardly noticed:
Until the day
> you asked, ”Hey,
where did they all go?”
Big Problem
Sometimes,
when all the noise
dies down
and you’re by yourself,
it’s pleasant to think
that no one is left
in the entire world,
that you are the last.
Everything is over,
and history is like
a movie whose last reel
has already spun its way
through the projector,
with no more
attractions to come,
just a blank screen
in an empty theater,
just a clear blue sky
over a quiet landscape.
Nothing that ever happened
makes any difference,
there is nothing more
for you to fret about…
until you realize
that eventually you’ll
have to join the others,
that even though
the world is gone,
the biggest problem
in the world
still remains for you.
The Note
Everyone says that
the universe is a marvel.
But you never thought that.
Everyone says that
life is well worth having.
But you never thought that.
What you thought
was contained in a note
pinned to your hanged body.
Everyone thought that
Your hand was beautiful.
But they never said anything.
Suddenly
Where did you go?
They looked for you.
They looked everywhere.
But even if they had
looked for you
over every inch of the earth
they would never
have tracked you down.
Yet only yesterday
anyone could have
found you at home
or called you on the telephone.
Premature
When it’s all over,
they sometimes say things
such as “before his time”
or perhaps “too young.”
But the fact is this:
everything happens because
“its time has come.”
And the last thing
that happens to you
will always be “on time.”
No one is too young.
Nothing is premature.
Everyone, including you,
is right on schedule.
It’s true.
Staying
Staying around here
can be so very hard.
Really very hard.
Getting up every day
and tying your shoes
and eating your food.
You go to bed at night
and sleep your sleep
and dream your dreams.
Then another day comes
and another night goes.
It never seems to stop.
Yet going can be hard too,
really very hard.
Limited options indeed.
Birthday
Even after a person
is gone from this world,
people often tend
to remember birtdays.