contents The Other Country There are no doors no windows here you enter from the wings where living hurts you drag yourself to the center you crouch under a grey canvas sky and you wait near a dead tree until they come to beat you blue to stone you half-dead then you crawl inside a wooden box to sleep it off your bones dry of marrow dust in your mouth sometimes you hear voices in your head or the croaking of frogs in the morning before the pale sun you perform the gymnastics of the mind doubled-up like a centaur and you wait you wait for the shy moon to roll into a ball before you movement a heresy but one day another man comes who carries his life in his hands he too must perform so the day can be saved even if the moon never returns and laughing is a painful process
Notes for Sam
The Funanbulistic Stagger
NO MORE QUARRELS
(for Donald Barthelme)
June 1989 Barthelme (I read some but not all),
Now all we have are the notes It was good to quarrel with Barthelme. |
VAN GOGH AMIDST THE FLOWERS I am writing this to get your attention and tell you of the sweet pain of that mad man lost amidst the flowers an artist to whom no one ever said: That's nice what you're doing there I want one of those for my mother |
it is no easy aim to jump to one's death and not miss the target most of us would rather delay than fail our end his was a perfect death not only did he impale himself on the flag-pole but he brought the flag down to half-mast |