Sunday, March 18, 2012
His underwear sagged,
Nostrils sang songs about
What it was.
What was it?
I had forgot that when
Horses get impaled little
Girls eat arms from a
Worn coat. Elbow patches
Dripping from their mouths,
She looked like James Joyce in that kangol hat.
I didn't know what it was called until right now.
Shirt tucked, patterned in squares, pants tight,
Body slimmed from all the exercise of her mouth.
He fell in love, but know she's grown,
Developed, dispatched women from grief,
And I saw her once.
Gave her a good impression, know that was a
Lie. I'm not good. I'm not the crab scuttling,
But she'll never connect the cable, and I'll
Keep up the lies until she forgets, assuming
She cared enough to remember.
Massive wheeled boxes skid
Into the blank cylinders
Left by the nostrils
That sang above
He poured that black sap
Onto the sidewalk.
The colt hollowed,
Aged women watched as
I lied about what
I saw. It couldn't
Claws on coral,
Sunday, March 4, 2012
The first rumor I heard was that he was in New York. Simple. But the second said Chicago, and the third said a farm in Iowa (or was it Idaho? I forget. It might've been—no, wait, Idaho was the fourth). The fifth, which I heard from the New Yorker, was that he was now somewhere in London, had flown from JFK, and was now somewhere in the East End. After that I can't remember the order, but to mention some of the places: Paris, Morocco, Vancouver, Hamburg, Vienna, Vietnam (Vietnam?), then down to Italy. I heard a few about Italy. There was the one about him drowning off the coast of Venice, something about a sunken cruise liner. But then I heard Naples, and finally I heard that he'd somehow got into the Presidential Estate of Castel Porziano, and was now in hiding, camping amongst infected Italian Stone Pines.
With the new year the rumors shifted too, possibly to avoid the cold, and he was now rumored in various warmer climates: the coast of Chile, staying with a tribe in Brazil (or was it Guyana?) where sex was treated like a handshake, Mexico City, and on up into Texas, El Paso, and then the Sonoran Desert, where he'd supposedly been hired as a ranch hand. As spring ended he was rumored to have traveled north, up Highway 1, and was spending the warm season in the hills of the East Bay. At this time I was offered a summer position in a UC Berkeley lab and spent my evenings at bars I thought he'd like, casually offering descriptions and even flashing an old photo occasionally, if I wasn't too paranoid. It started strong, but as they do, the trail went cold, and by the time I returned home rumors had placed him both fishing in Alaska and shearing sheep in Australia.
I made trips, over the next two years, to: Beijing, Colorado, Tunisia, New Orleans, and Dayton, Ohio (another postcard).
For seven weeks I heard rumors of Japan, volunteering in some sort of disaster-relief program near Yatomi. When I finally worked up the nerve to go, a postcard arrived from Seattle, and I canceled the trip. It was at this time that I first became sick, and per doctor's orders, I took a break from the search, avoided checking my mail, and nursed myself back to health. By the end of the month my PO Box was overflowing with clues and rumors (though no postcards), and I resumed my efforts.
That winter I grew sick again, a pain in my side, and my doctor again convinced me to take a break, but this time a real vacation. Recent rumors had been placing him around San Diego, and the warm weather could only do good. I used up the majority of my vacation hours and explored—when my health afforded it—the entire lower half of California, a few days here and there. Once again I lost track, and this combined with my sickness got me sent back home, to the hospital where I lay now, recounting this story.
Yesterday I received a bouquet of flowers and a get well card bearing a single word: Beijing. Though based on the X-rays, I do not think I will be going again.