by Don McKay
He becomes the first displaced person, exiled to the land of Nod, whose etymology, as he probably realized, was already infected with wandering. Then his biography goes underground, rumouring everywhere. Some say he tries farming once again in the hinterland, scratching illegibly at the glacial till before hitting the first road. Some say he fathers a particularly warlike tribe, the Kenites. Some, like Saint Augustine, claim that he takes revenge on agriculture by founding the first cities, rationalizing all his wanderings into streets and tenements, and so charting the course for enclosures and clearances to come. But perhaps his strategy is simpler and more elegant. Perhaps he just thins into his anger, living as a virus in the body politic: the wronged assassin, the anti-farmer, the terrorist tattooed with the promise of sevenfold revenge. Like anyone, he wants to leave his mark.
II. FATES WORSE THAN DEATH
Atrocity
implies an audience of gods.
The gods watched as swiftfooted
godlike Achilles cut behind the tendons of both feet
and pulled a strap of oxhide through
so he could drag the body of Hektor,
tamer of horses, head down in the dust
behind his chariot.
Some were appalled, some not,
having nursed their grudges well, until
those grudges were fine milkfed
adolescents, armed
with automatic weapons. The gods,
and farther off,
the gods before the gods, those who ate
their children and contrived
exquisite tortures in eternity, watched
and knew themselves undead. Such is the loss, such
the wrath of swiftfooted godlike
Achilles, the dumb fucker, that he drags,
up and down, and round and round the tomb
of his beloved, the body of Hektor,
tamer of horses. Atrocity
is never senseless. No. Atrocity is dead ones
locked in sense, forbidden
to return to dust, but scribbled in it,
so that everyone – the gods,
the gods before the gods, the enemy, the absent mothers, all
must read what it is like to live out exile on the earth
without it, to be without recesses, place,
a campsite where the river opens
into the lake, must read
what it means to live against the sun and not to die.
Watch,
he says, alone in the public
newscast of his torment, as he
cuts behind the tendons of both feet,
and pulls a strap of oxhide through,
so he can drag the body that cannot stop being Hektor,
tamer of horses, head down in the dust
behind his chariot, watch
this.
III. THE BASE
Unheard helicopter chop
locks my mind in neutral.
What was it I was supposed to think
as I entered the forbidden country of the base? For this
was not the wisdom I had bargained for –
banality. No orchids of evil
thriving on the phosphorus that leaks
from unexploded shells. No litter of black
ratatats like insoluble hailstones, or fungi
springing up from dead ka-booms.
After nearly forty years of shattered air, I find
not one crystal in the khaki gravel.
Nondescription.
What was Cain thinking
as he wandered here? Whatever
“here” may be, for it has largely been forgotten
by the maps, and also by itself, a large anonymous
amnesia in the middle of New Brunswick.
What shapes occupied the mind
which since has occupied the landscape?
Did he foresee this triumph of enchantment
whereby place itself becomes its camouflage,
surrenders Petersville, Coot Hill, and New
Jerusalem, to take up orders?
Did he anticipate the kingdom of pure policy,
whose only citizens – apart
from coyotes, ravens, moose –
are its police?
Except for graveyards, which have been
preserved, this real estate is wholly owned
and operated by the will, clearcut,
chemicalled and bombed.
Black wires like illegible writing
left everywhere. Ballistics? Baker Dog Charley?
Plastic vials tied to trees at intervals, containing
unknown viscous liquid. In some folktale
I can’t conjure, I would steal this potion
and confer great gifts – or possibly destruction –
upon humanity. In a myth
or Wonderland, I’d drink it and become
a native. No thanks.
Yet blueberries grow, creeks
sparkle, and an early robin
sings from the scrub. Can a person eat
the berries when they ripen? What kind of fish
thicken in the creeks? During hunting season,
claims the Base Commander, moose and deer
take sanctuary in the impact areas, since no personnel
may enter. Often, late September, you may
see a moose, Jean Paul L’Orignal, perhaps,
sitting on a stump along the border of the base,
huge chin resting on a foreleg,
pondering alternatives: cheerful psychopaths
in psychedelic orange, or a moose-sized replica
of the absurd, ka-boom?
Now I recall
the story of the soldier detailed to attack
an “enemy position,” which turned out to be
his grandfather’s old farmhouse. Basic Training:
once out of nature he was not about
to get sucked in by some natural seduction
and disgrace himself with tears
or running to the kitchen for an oatmeal cookie.
He made, as we all do, an adjustment.
Standing here
still parked in neutral
I’m unable to identify the enemy’s position or
sort the evil genii from fallen
farmers, victims and assassins
interpenetrate with vendors and vendus in long
chromosomal threads.
Time to retreat.
Walking back, I try to jump a creek
and sprain my wrist. Pick up your goddamned
feet – . Still, I stop to cut two
pussy-willow branches. Why? Imagined
anti-fasces? Never
was the heaviness of gesture
heavier, nor hope more of a lump,
than trying to imagine that those buds
might, back home in the kitchen, unclench, each fragile hair
pom-pommed with pollen, some day
to open into leaf.
IV. STRETTO
Having oversold the spirit, having,
having talked too much of angels, the fool’s rush, having the wish,
thicker than a donkey’s penis,
holier than o, having the wish
to dress up like the birds,
to dress up like the birds and be and be and be.
Off the hook.
Too good for this world.
Unavailable for comment.
Elsewhere.
*
Wonderful Elsewhere, Unspoiled,
Elsewhere as Advertised, Enchanted, Pristine,
Expensive. To lift, voluptuous, each feather cloak
worth fifty thousand finches: to transcend
the food chains we have perched upon and hover – hi there
fans from coast to coast – to beam back dazzling
shots of the stadium, drifting in its cosmos
like a supernova, everywhere the charged
us. As every angel is.
*
Every angel is incestuous.
Agglutinoglomerosis: the inlet choked with algae thriving on
the warmth
imparted by the effluent. Contermitaminoma: runoff through
the clearcut takes the topsoil to the river then
out into the bay to coat the coral reef in silt. Gagaligogo:
seepage from the landfill finds the water table. Elugelah:
the south-
sea island angelized by the first H-blast.
In the dead sea
we will float as stones. Unmortal
*
Unmortality Incorporated.
No shadow. All day
it is noon it is no one. All day
it utters one true sentence jammed
into its period. Nothing is to be allowed
to die but everything gets killed
and then reclassified: the death of its death
makes it an art form. Hang it.
Prohibit the ravens. Prohibit the coyotes.
Prohibit the women with their oils and cloths and
weep weep weeping. Tattoo this extra letter
on the air:
This is what we can do.
Detonation. Heartbeats of the other,
signed, sealed,
delivered. Thunder
eats of its echo eats its vowels smothers its
elf. To strike
hour after hour the same hour. To dig
redig the gravels that are no one’s grave.
*
Gravels, aye, tis gravels ye’ll gnash mit muchas gracias and will it please thee sergeant dear to boot me arse until I hear the mermaids sinking? You know it: tis the gravel of old rocknroll highroad, me darling sibs, the yellow brick jornada del muerto. You fancy me far from your minds, wandering lonely as a clod in longlost brotherhood, while your door’s locked and your life’s grammatically insured, yet (listen) scurry scurry (Is – That – Only – A – Rat – In – The – Basement – Better – Phone – Dad – Oh – No – The – Line’s – Dead, Mandatory Lightning Flash) yup, here I am with the hook old chum. Hardly Fair, what? Now gnash this: beautiful tooth, tooth beautiful. Repeat: die nacht ist die nacht. How many fucking times do I have to Fucking tell you, me rosasharns? Nayther frahlicher ner mumbo, nayther oft when on my couch I lie ner bonny doom will lift from these eyes of thine their click clock particles of record time. Ammo ergo somme. We bombs it back to square one, then, o babes in arms, we bombs square one. Nomine Fat Boy ate Elugelah ate Alamogordo gravel. Mit click clock lock licht nicht.
Encore.
Die Nacht ist die Nacht.
MEDITATION ON ANTIQUE GLASS
This room, whose windows are waterfalls
in stasis, dreaming in one place, is wrong
for figuring your income tax or poker.
Susceptibility
they say as they teach the light to cry
and introduce hard facts to their first
delicious tremors of metamorphosis:
susceptibility
as though the film were paused at the point of flashing back,
woozy with semiosis: the rapids are gentle,
they say, drink me. Wrong
for marking essays or making plans.
Nights are worse. Darkness,
as it makes love to the glass, grows thick
and rich, advertising for itself, it whispers
memory muscle, whispers
Guinness is good for you, whispers
loss is its own fur, whispers
once, once
irresistibly.
SHORT FAT FLICKS
1. He rides into town
already perfect, already filled with nothing. His music is a hawk scream which has been crossed with machine, perhaps eternity’s lathe, and fashioned into a horse. His hatbrim is horizon. It is all over. Only the unspeakable trauma which erased his name concerns him. Now it concerns the townsfolk as they scuttle, gutless, behind shopfronts. Two minutes ago their houses were three-dimensional and contained kitchens, not to mention closets. Now the houses, the general store, livery, and sheriff’s office are so obviously props that the townsfolk have stopped believing in them before the curtains twitch back into place. Now they are cover awaiting shootout, and the townsfolk are extras waiting to fall, aaargh, from their roofs, and crash, spratinkle tinkle tinkle, through their windows. He rides into town from another genre, from the black star that sucks the depth from everything, a soundless bell tolling. You should have changed your life, it says, done, done, done. Doesn’t even consider that you fixed up the den and took that night class in creative writing.
2. Their eyes meet
ah, and there is a satisfying drag on the sprockets, as though the celluloid were suddenly too heavy to turn, as though the projector were sleepy. One violin has been stricken and starts, legato, a drugged smoke alarm, to troll the theme, which the camera catches, tracking left (always left) to take in a quiver of lips. Close-up, close-up, two-shot, their four eyes have begun to unbutton and bud, the strings now ahum, vibrato, zoom zoom zoom they shed the depth of field. Who needs it? The darkness is inhabited, the popcorn is buttered. Their lips approach like shy cats. Her eyes have decided to skinny-dip in his and his in hers: one more microzoom and they dive, leaving the rest of their faces behind to nuzzle and rub, attempting to smudge the irregular line between them. And the eyes? Are swimming with us, dolphins, in the darkness, which is rich and viscous, the lake of tears we’ve been waiting for.
3. We take our seats
and settle into our bodies, waiting for the lights to dim so we can feel ourselves falling, this is the best part, feel ourselves falling into a safer kind of sleep, an elaborate parkland of carefully prepared surprises. As the curtains begin to part, lingerie, we can see through them to the screen, which has begun to flicker into being. Will the plot matter? Of course not. Movies have been sent to us to make up for the bathroom mirror, with its rigid notion of representation, and the family, with its chain-link semantic net. Here we feel ideas wriggle into costume and images reach toward us out of light. Soon their logos will appear – the winged horse in the symmetrical cosmos, perhaps, or shifting constellations that swirl into an O. Everything will be incarnate, in camera, anything can be a star.
ODE TO MY CAR
As if. As if it oiled your idle
notions, machined,
massaged them till there never was no
clunk no hand me that spanner no
crank ’er over.
As if motor were simply the syrinx of speed as if
movie movie all you ever have to pay is your attention, focus
on the docudrama in the windshield, stay tuned
to the hummingbird who hums in the accelerator, in the cylinders
the six brave heart attacks are singing and the clutch
performs the sigh with which the lovers shift into
more comfortable
positions:
there.
Something has come from nothing, as if
a handful of its blackberries had been
gathered. Something in a tooth
desires to speak in tongues. Something in a consonant
attends its vowels, as if
minuet. Synchromesh.
Momentum. Here lies the precise
mystery of transmission.
SETTING UP THE DRUMS
The tools of music: this is where it first
emerged from noise and how it
stays in touch with clutter
and how it gets back to the heart –
that single-stroke kachunker with its grab, give,
grab. He is bringing the kitchen,
the workshop, screwing wingnuts and attaching
brackets, placing the pedals like accelerators,
setting up the stands for snare and high
hat like decapitated
wading birds. How music will make itself walk
into the terrible stunned air behind the shed
where all the objects looked away. Now the hollow bodies,
their blank moons tilted just asking for it, and back and
back to the time you missed the step
and dropped the baby and your heart leapt out
to catch it, for all those accidents that might have
and that happened he floats the ride and then
suspends the crash above the wreckage like its flat
burnished bell.
Unsheathes the brushes that can shuffle through the grass
or pitter like small rain. All this hardware to recall
the mess you left back home
and bring it to the music
and get back to the heart.
He sits on the stool
in the middle of your life
and waits to feel the beat. To speak it
and keep it. Here we go.
ACOUSTICS OF THE CONICAL TUBE
Their behaviour is acoustically mysterious … we get fundamentals being pitched a third or a fourth deeper, as if the air column were projected back, in imagination, to the true apex of the cone-bore, which is in most cases several inches beyond the reed (down the player’s throat, as it were).
– Anthony Baines, Woodwind Instruments and Their History
Lying in its case, the alto sax looks brash, nouveau riche, a gold tooth. Pick it up, heft it, plonk the keys down with a sound like whumping the top of a beer bottle. You could play this thing, man, it’s just a kazoo with buttons. Follow the action as you press this key or that, watching the force reverse over a see-saw hinge or torque around the cylinder to pop a hole open or closed: mechanism: it’s a fantastic insect, the elegance of niftiness rather than refinement. So blow. The sax isn’t going to transform your breath like other instruments but magnify it, reaching back down your throat to amplify its possibilities, giving prominence to neglected dialects like the honk, the cough, the hum, and even (Archie Shepp) the last gasp. It does not concern itself with angels, as the flute, nor with the dead like Dante, modernism, and the cello. It does not even imitate or extend the human voice as the violin is said to do. The sax is equipment singing – our equipment: a troubling of air which addresses us, the dying, from our own respiratory systems. Its idiom is breath, unrelieved of the deplorable burdens of sex and work. It has the richness of a muffler in its last days, an overloaded ferry on a muddy river. You may hear your father’s phlegmy old Chev or the soft honk of Trumpeter Swans over miles of high prairie. You may hear soupe du zoo. You will always hear the sob in the note, the hollow sob which comes from the lung, the womb of voice. The sob that will gather the unsay-able without cashing it in on lyric silver. When the wind blows (Lao-tzu) there is only wind. When the sax blows there is only wind and the whole goddamned human condition. Mortality’s exhaust pipe. Ready for nothing.