He leans, reaches, picks-up
the pen, points it at an envelope back,
weights the paper with his wrist bending back
his hand, puts the pen to paper, prints: LOVE
BOAT - TUES 8 **. Ah! Aaahhh! I feel the
doing of it!::::At least, imagine
clearly::::feel my imagination feel! How many
times has he written 'love'? (not to be
gotten from his memory)::::Probably never!
Blind, with the innocence but not the charm,
the truth but not the penetration, the vision
but not the revelation of a young writer, he
writes 'love'. I've known that same
blindness; I've known the unconscious desire,
the urge, to find vision::::it became a
writer through me::::I became a writer
through it::::I became a writer through
myself; all this, and I am still a young
writer. Then, I write 'love', instead of
accepting passing it by, grab it up, squish
it with two fingers like killing a flea,
shake it in my fist, bounce it on my palm,
sniff it, lick it, push it gently to my ear
drum, pick it out, hold it in my lips like a
cigarette, holding it with my tongue brush my
teeth with it, roll it to the back of my
mouth, begin to swallow, gag, vomit, pick it
from my vomit, flick it onto my desk, roll it
out flat, open the curtains to bake it in
sunlight::::it doesn't rise, close the
curtains, look down and it is gone::::only
its stain: loss of innocence! I am a writer!
What he quietly accepts::::passes by, has
given me the urge, the vision::::Life! Have I
made it all up? The pain is real. Tell me the
pain is real! I see it in every writers'
eyes::::What are those sly smiles, so
discreet, if not acceptance and support::::in
confidence? Love is not a word! Love isn't a
word! The dead can't take back what they have
lived.
He is watching television.
He's dying. He watches cartoons. No one is
writing this. It is being read, and you're
doing the reading. I've lived myself, so I
know all about reading. Now I'm dead. Na, na,
na na, na. You doubt me; I know. Life was
full of doubt; now I'm dead. It doesn't
matter if you believe me, but it's to your
advantage to believe this story.
Dirty gray tennis shoes,
flat with the floor, point out::::to the
corners of the wall behind his tv: his bright
red socks, stale, his tan slacks slung tight
over bent knees, loose lines, taut lines
bunch at the crotch; his brown belt missing a
loop on the right; two smooth, slight
belly-rolls below his belly-button and one
crease above; sparse black curly
hair::::center chest, and around his
nipples::::oases; two days' stubble on neck
on chin circling mouth sides of his face;
white-yellow dot of gunk inner corner of his
right eye; messy curly dirty dirty-blonde
mop.
No one is telling you you
have to die. Once, as a young writer, I
pretended to be dying. What nonsense! You
aren't reading this as it's being written;
you aren't reading this as it having been
written. No one is writing this. You think
being with no one is being dead, writing is
dying; you think being with your creator is
being dead, reading is dying. You don't want
to be dying if you can help it. He can't.
Leave him be then, you think Who are you
thinking this to? Once, as a young writer, I
thought to writers, to their words, to
myself, to my own words::::then I left
thought. And what good did it do? No one
warned me. I found out for myself. You're
reading this without reading being dying. If
only this story had been written before my
death!
He has just sat down with
another beer. He drinks, sets the can down
near his right shoe. Wrecklessness!::::first
time in... (he doesn't remember). It had made
him feel alive then::::(maybe it is something
on tv)::::but now reminds him he's dying.
Commercial. He realizes he had fetched the
beer during his
program::::frowns::::worries::::shakes head
breathing through nose; stupidity::::maybe
craziness. He smiles; a pretty woman::::opens
his mouth.
On the long walk home from
his doctor's he had stopped by the liquor
store, selected an expensive six-pack, nabbed
a bag of pretzels, standing at the counter he
answered: 'Uh, yeah, a pack of Lucky Strikes,
please.' Walking he took the pack from the
paper bag holding the bag under his arm
against his right side freeing his right
hand, peel-ripped the cellophane::::the red
thingy had broken::::he's reminded of the red
strings in band-aids::::opened the pack,
unfolded the foil, then jerked the pack
up::::nothing::::he'd expected one to rise
enough to be taken with his lips::::dug a
cigarette out paper bag slipped he stopped
grabbed everything, then, collected,
cigarette nicely fingered, realized::::he'd
forgotten matches::::they were right there
next to the cashregister::::free::::he has
never taken free matches::::made a fist,
grinding the cigarette, dropped it::::he's
guilty about having littered::::the idea of
going into the kitchen to fetch the
cigarettes Sylvester hit with a frying pan
incredible knot shoots up from his head.