by Steve Finbow
My memory is a long list of similar encounters.
Shoah—if six million Jews died,
how many does it take to remember them?
How long does the memory abide?
Who interprets it?
In the theme park,
I found a small office building one could easily mistake for an outhouse.
Within its crumbling wooden walls, rickety shelves held dozens and dozens of ledgers. Leather covers? Golden words. Crinkled spines.
I took down the leather volumes and began to fill the columns and the rows with names, names of men, names of men and women,
names of those long dead, long dead to the memory anyway.
But then, who would know?
Who would know that these people no longer exist?
Once written down, they disappear.
They disappeared.
The only way to resurrect them?
To have someone read their names, run their fingers along the rows, the columns,
form their mouths into tiny explosions of existence—
Raoul, Cesc, Ynyr.
Language is like a road movie, a chase—
there are certain places to stop on the way to the final point,
the points of meaning, of relevance;
then there’s the action in between;
the clothing and the music and the hairstyles.
Nouns, verbs.
Hotels, roads.
People, sex.
Silk thongs and inverted-cross necklaces. Tattoos.
Above the theme park,
in a nest made of bones lined with human skin,
a monstrous creature—not bird, not insect, not reptile, not mammal—
sits and waits, occasionally taking to the sky in an effort
not to foul its nest with urine and feces.
The creature is a form of gargoyle,
an amalgamation of everything that has ever lived,
the reification of all our fears, jealousies, loves, hates, paranoias, hopes,
and longings.
Invisible to the human eye,
it can be heard on dark nights chittering,
saliva dripping from its awful jaws, waiting, watching.
I stand in the centre of the room, say:
“Subject verb. Subject verb object. Subject verb indirect object direct object.”
X shakes his head.
I say,
“Auxiliary subject verb.
Auxiliary subject verb object.
Auxiliary subject verb indirect object direct object.
Object auxiliary subject verb.”
X screams, says,
“Where are the names?
What are the names?
Why are the names?
When are the names?
Who are the names?
How are the names?”
I nod, say nothing. But my mouth moves.
Say again nothing but my mouth moves again.
Into the frame of the window comes a large head.
The head is larger than the window.
Rows of teeth. More so. Black, shiny head. Hard.
The eyes large and enquiring, covered
in a see-through membrane, smoky, pixelated.
I turn to X, push him down onto the wire bed frame.
Open my coat.
I am wearing a bikini.
I am wearing my Queen of all Insects sunglasses.
I straddle X.
The breath of the thing outside clouds the window.
X screams.
The window clouds.
X screams.
Heavy breathing fills the room. I say,
“Subject verb object.”
X says, “No. Yes. No. Yes.”
I say, “Subject verb.”
X screams.
I wipe his forehead.
Unstraddle him.
Walk to the wardrobe.
Step in.
X has no face.
X has a face.
X has my eyes.
X has his.
X has my mouth.
X gets up from the bed frame.
Opens the wardrobe.
It is empty.
Out of shot, a phone rings.
He walks to the front of the room.
Only the top of his head and his left shoulder are visible.
His voice muffled, he says,
“Yes, this is X. I’m sure. No. Yes.”
I say nothing.
Look out of the window see X…
The Zero Article
…run & run & run. Stop.
Turn back.
Try to get by without them.
Always.
Without definites, indefinites, without markers.
Call me who I am & I’ll tell you I’m not.
That room did not exist.
Does not.
Nor does the wire bed frame, the giant eye, the escaping bird.
All boils down to a misunderstanding. T
he incorrectness of words.
Their fallibility.
All words escape the mouth, the body,
hurtling into space, to end up where?
How? Why?
Maybe there was no road, no roadhouse, no motels, no Babylon.
Just words.
The theme park is real.
The Thunderbird is real.
The tail—no pun intended—is real.
What said were just words.
Should have acted.
Just done it. Got it over with.
Placed arm around her,
took her lips.
But didn’t.
Waited.
Said.
Told.
Death of me.
Death of I.
Death of us.
Fuck. There it is.
It came to be known as “The Misunderstanding.”
To Z, it was the mistake. No quotation marks, no capitals.
But it was the starting pistol on a race to prove…
To prove what? Love? Lust?
The fear of rejection?
It all started…
It all starts…
Don’t remember.
Always escaping to find way back to imprisonment.
Should have left it alone.
Left the words forming in throat.
Forming in mind.
Mute.
Silent.
But words are Z’s blood.
Think she wants out also.
Both escape.
Escape the possibility of communication.
Z’s phantom tail.
The constant chittering.
The splash of dark red urine.
The nouns,
verbs,
adjectives,
adverbs,
so many eggs wrapped in foul saliva.
Theory—blackness forms out of asking someone to do something
they would never normally do.
To be someone they would never normally be.
That hatching has come back to haunt her.
To haunt us.
Fuck. There it is again.
Always there,
like a monstrous comma waiting for the final clause in the sentence.
Life.
Death.
Or…
Points North
…resurrection.
The highway reflected in the incoming headlights,
bounced up,
mirror-driven to the billboards that announce
the film of the book of the actual events.
Above everything.
As if its spine presses against the very edge of the atmosphere,
the skin on its muscular back tattooed with the sparse particles of the exosphere,
the flashing scales of letters.
Down.
Moving down.
At speed.
Thermosphere,
mesosphere,
<
br /> stratosphere,
troposphere.
Something trailing just out of sight,
a cable,
a limb,
a tentacle?
Dropping now into an icy landscape, the world
shrunk to a snow globe.
Wings heaving to position it steady,
hovering above the fake railway tracks
spread out like a skeletal fan in the snow’s white cover.
And from above,
it sees her running,
dressed too lightly for this weather. Always
willing wishing to be with her, always—striding and stumbling
through the railway yard,
the man catches her,
grabs her hand.
And down it comes,
its claws rending the air as it lifts its toothed beak
and roars silently among the snowflakes,
its rancid breath melting the ice on impact,
a pellet of feces falling from its anus,
splattering the snow.
No trains move.
A platform with a waiting room appears.
No birds fly.
X pulls Z towards the abandoned station.
No sound.
Not even the earache crunch of footsteps.
It follows them with its eyes, beating its wings steadily, cocking
its head to one side, splashing
the ground beneath with dark red urine.
The clock is stopped.
This is memory.
Eternal.
Recurring.
Exile.
Reconciliation.
Ex nihilo.
Conclusion a towards moves everything, here from.
Go…
Get set…
Get ready…
Because…
From here…
Nothing Matters - prose version
Points South
From here, everything moves towards a conclusion.
Get ready…
Get set…
Go…
Wake knowing to escape. Get out of here. Get out. Get. Go. Escape the last refuge. There comes a time in life when escape becomes the only choice. To flee. To run away. To get the hell out before mulling over other options, other decisions made. Fishtail out of city in hurry to put distance between us. Never use that word again. Z would say—first-person plural objective. Fuck that. Objective? Fuck off. Just before alarm sounded, turned over, looked at Z, wished & hoped it would be last time. Air in room fetid with wrong choices, stale emotions. Once on road, wound down window. Cicadas ratcheting up their scratchy instruments. Desert wind, riding shotgun, cooled fever. Looked at her closed eyes, a certain momentum. Lies, doubts, slow dismantling of desire—no more. Physical but never violent. Violence bubbled under, simmered away, drawing out kick from usual ingredients of need, detachment. Made promise not to do it. To add one more to ledger. What fucking ledger? But that last night, spilled over, left her in puddle of silk, pool of lace, imprint of brass knuckles on high derisive cheekbones.
Now. Lonesome highway; straight road, no switchbacks or u-turns, no stoplights or patrol cars. Look in rear-view mirror, see residue of her—pupils & irises, double eclipse of Neptune. Shake head to clear image, gun car to ton-plus, hoping breeze will cleanse.
Look in rear-view mirror, say, “What should I do?”
Reflection replies, “Keep going, I suppose.”
Armadillos or giant wood lice dying in the road. How has love turned to hate? Worse. How has love turned to indifference? But then, love is not a thing to be turned like milk. Love is nothing solid, an abstract thing made up of hormones, flesh, words—hormones you didn’t know existed, flesh you could not control, words you would never use in other circumstances. Fuck those words. Fuck language. Love will not be named. Could not. Do not know love’s brand. Have no idea of its make. Whatever it is we had is now no longer that thing the poets call love. Obsession? Lust? Watch buzzards wheel overhead drunk on shifting thermals. Splash of dark red urine on windscreen.
Honey-colored land speeds by. Long lizard’s tongue of road ahead sucked under wheels. Ghost of body in trunk of car. Not hers. Ghost of body of last victim. Her last victim to spin it that way. Oh, she never got her hands dirty. Mine mired in countless acts of death. She sketched the butterflies arriving first, careful not to burden their wings with blood.
Then. Z in bathroom showering. Cutting up body. Outside in courtyard, in fountain, water kaleidoscopic in midday sun. Stripped it. Shredded clothes. Drained blood. Used hacksaw to partition—head, legs, arms, torso. Dis-membered. Re-membered. Silhouetted countries, puzzle books, black mass of Poland or Hungary, Czechoslovakia or France. She asked. Like the others. Thought of her with another man throbbed inside until only way to quell was to kill that man who had been in her arms, between her legs, on her mind. Took too long to leave. Going now. Moving fast. Coyotes play tug-of-war with a ragged sinew.
Swore to never get involved with a woman like Z. Three years ago, fundraising event—black tie & eat-all-you-can for starving in Africa affair—head of security for events company. Z date of local politician big in unheard of small town. Working crowd unsure what to look for. Dash of minor celebrities, splash of local businessmen, mass of women sculpted by surgeons & dieticians to look pinched, shiny & angular—human arrows. Z stood out. Skin, sallow not Gucci, fresh peppering of freckles. Hair, chestnut brown not bleached blonde, hung naturally to nape of neck. Lips showed no sign of Botox; framed by parenthetical laughter lines, color of ripe three-balls. Eyes, grey—sometimes silver, sometimes lead, always gunmetal—flashed lilac flames when she smiled. Saw moths explode in puffs of powdery scales.
Out of corner of eye, watched her move about room in green silk dress, shaking hands, gently squeezing arms, air-kissing cheeks. Left eye—slightly lazy, wandering away from stares of men, seeking sanctuary in quieter recesses of ballroom. Ignored flushes & blushes, grinding of teeth, brow sweats, collar tugs, armpit burns. End of evening, Z & date waiting for valet to bring car, said, “Good night, ma’am,” Z smiled, reached to shake, pressed something into hand, looked at nametag, said, “Good night, Mr X.” Crumpled note in palm, slipped it into inside jacket pocket. Later, took it out, smoothed it flat. Note contained line of numbers. Jackpot. Maybe not. In fountains, pigeons preen petrol feathers.
Three days later, called. Met. Fucked. Left. Loitered. Called. Z reneged. Called again. Z lied. Third time lucky. Z relented. Three days later. Met. Fucked. Z left. Followed. Still am. Still was. Obsession—second skin—true nature of beast. Breathed her air as she passed, ripples she made in world, turbulence flowing behind—a satin cape, diaphanous robe of skin cells. Tasted it. Flicked tongue out at spores of her. Atomized. Luxuriated in her particularness. Graceful in awkwardness, lazy in stride, sunglasses reflecting only her in the mirrored windows. Dogs sniff at invisible things long departed.
Big house. Spanish with Venusian highlights. Parked down street. Watched gates swing open. German, Italian & Jap cars, an automotive meeting of Axis powers. Saw dogs, sleek yet muscled, black & edgy—crystal night out in Hades. Complicated shadows played out of recesses stretching aerobically to vast expanse of drive, hymn to emptiness, clear sign of money. Man crunched white stones under pale blue loafers beneath tanned calves under cream chino shorts beneath paler blue polo shirt under face stretched clean & clear beneath hair color of wet stones. Husband. Husband—Jew-boy realtor, sometime movie producer, stallion in stock market, My Little Pony in boudoir. Z liked it rough, preferably rougher. Liked it anal & finished when she said so. Her hebe hubby didn’t care. Sometimes paid to watch. Observer. Spy. Z took on all comers. Thought she could be tamed. Wrong. Cats merge with shadows, moving from light to dark.
First to go—her long-time lover, pretty-boy politician. Waited for him—mission control waiting for window in weather. One day, two days, three. Sun came out. Scratch itch. Sky turned liquid blue urged blotting out of memories
. Snakes coil in irreversible technologies of existence.
Somewhere in the Night, Shadow on the Wall, Black Angel, Mirage, Street of Chance, Memento. Amnesia movies—characters can’t remember killing chick, bookie, pimp. Not a thing. Nada. Have to piece it together—jigsaw puzzle, jigsaw puzzle without picture on box, without box. Pale fissured bubble of brain stretched wetly, devoid of things, people, voices, places, vast expanse of nothingness—no me, no I, no you, no they—characterless desert, sand ripples whistling an unremembered tune. Reverse. Live in crowded city peopled by Earthlings, Venusians, Martians riding hippogriffs & spotted unicorns, where buildings hurtle into mother-of-pearl sky piercing saffron clouds raining down static electricity that boils on pavements, turns to minuscule diamonds reflecting back billions upon billions of fractured images of city’s dwellers, sharpens voices, amplifies cacophony, fuels desires. Anti-amnesia. Remember everything, clickclick, details, clickclick, meat & potatoes, clickclick, nuts & bolts, clickclick; also tiny things, minutiae: earwax ingrained in pinkie fingernail, cat’s claw shining in bottom of cuff, greyish grain of rice in snowy wad of sushi. Clickclick. Good. Was. Salamanders writhe together in intimate rapture.
Rear-view mirror—solidified representation of past, catch glimpse of billboard advertising local car dealership. Faded signs for S**** Them* P***. Scribble of railway lines, pastel blocks, a strange tail, spine-like drooping into picture. Remember, clickclick, sound of tires rolling over body, lift & tilt of vehicle moving slowly, pitching—lake-tossed rowing boat. Later, lilt & heft of her voice, crystal chandelier caught in summer breeze tinkling heavy, heard on wind amidst summer picnic, far away, long ago. Never forget, clickclick, way he squealed & begged, way he pissed & shat his pants, way he crawled out to car bay, sun scribbling quick yellow lines in pooling blood, way tire tread left Maori tattoos across dying body. Z lapped it up. On knees, mouth stretched around cock, dorsal vein & dorsal artery pulsing electrical networks, driving, pushing, feeling static blue ozone reek of come, feel her swallow, watch her lap up escaping drops, feel neck muscles relax, hear final groan—spent, spent, spent. Maple trees, leaves falling like a million jagged bronze sails. Afterwards, Z didn’t call for two weeks, said she wanted time to think, said she wasn’t sure we’d done the right thing. Said she couldn’t remember asking. Fickleness of memory. Remembering words, clickclick, remembering their finality & promise for & of a future. Remembering them, clickclick, jewels & precious stones embedded in forehead, foreskin, forever. Remember finding carmine satin thong in jacket pocket, lady’s favour carried into battle, material manifestation of blood to flow that flowed & flowed & wouldn’t stop. Crows slash through sky, flickering shadows of elapsed time. Z said it all started…