Excerpt from "In the Attic of the House of the Dead: March 1-31, 1997"
March 16, 1997
these puzzles. these useless answers. helpless and certain,
very much like a house. how houses burn. something tenuous
exists between me and the dead. I am cruel because I will not
forget you. there is nowhere I want to go, now that your ashes
have been scattered. the work goes unread. the Peruvian
languishes in prison for eight months. I am looking at a
photograph of Ludvico Hurwitz y Zender, who was the last spy to
be shot in Britain during the great war. in dreams I am a
waiter. I dreamed you and him were having lunch in heaven,
discussing literature and hope. it is unknown what inducements
lure us. you never needed me. I can’t save you.
March 17, 1997
I could sleep in a knot. I could sleep on the floor. I could
sleep in an ambulance. I could sleep on the plane. beds splayed
out with flowers. I slept for days in a knot tied around you.
you described the sky as seen from the floor. the ambulance
never comes. you can sleep all day. the plane runs out of fuel.
the pilot is calm. he is walking in his sleep. you will never
catch him. because his heart is in knots. because the ambulance
fell from the sky and never recovered its grace. because walking
and sleeping are the same since you left us. because flowers are
useless since you left us. god sleeps with your hand on his
face. he still cries in his sleep.
March 18, 1997
electrical wiring in a haunted house. as the cars flow through.
little monsters. skeletons jump and howl. I tell her you live
in sparks. she’s never met you. what do you think nerves are
made of? where does the soul reside? the electrical body.
seized up and shaking until dead. throw a switch. sit all night
in the dark. I wish I could kiss you. the car turns until the
ride is over. like a story I tell. so you’ll stay alive one day
longer. so we could sleep. forget you are still dead. we could
paint the house. watch it peel. watch the clouds gather. wait
for them to rain. you can tell me what it’s like. make a
prediction. buy a ticket. get in the car. hold me tight.
March 19, 1997
she says the past is not history. they are divided. oxen in the
sun. and if you are spared? they come to her. they pull in
opposite directions. their hooves in the mud of our families.
their weight. the work is hateful and needed. people died as
they built these roads. you can live in flat land. in exile.
under the blighted stars. when you come I make bargains. I know
we will not escape. but the stars are lovely. I can eat a pear,
even if I don’t like them. he says I am hungry. I have been
walking on the road between us and the world. he tells her the
origin of stone. the rooms inside him. a chair. a belt on a
hook. helpless and hanging there.
March 20, 1997
in the attic of the house of the dead. examining the sky with a
telescope. making a map of heaven is useless because god is
everywhere and the angels keep shifting. all your goodbyes left
in the typewriter. every one. both of us awake. three in the
morning and I get a glass of water from the kitchen sink. a
growing sadness keeps me up. a flock of exhausted birds. a
father who writes a letter to god from prison. crying out in his
sleep. let me be an alchemist. turn hope into action. without
waste. without wings. the dead lean out of windows to drink
rainwater. they will tear this house down to build a larger one.
it will not bring you closer to me.
March 21, 1997
two overlapping stories. fugitive pieces falling into place.
like buying the drunk another drink. in the dark. if I let in a
finger of light it would flood the street. the defendant’s stare
never varied. the cop on the passenger side came out real fast
with his gun drawn. they say what are you doing and I say I live
here. I was straddled on my bicycle. my backpack was slipping.
I kept my hands in the air while they frisked me. getting used
to the idea of police arresting innocent men. Francisco
Maldonado, who is nineteen. in the light of all that preceded
it, the sentence I imposed seemed insignificant. to remain with
the dead is to abandon them.
March 22, 1997
there is much to do. you can visit the woman you love. razed
hands, palms open on the bed. feeling this subtlety. excellent
and tilting. twenty rings on just ten fingers. people think my
eyes are watering. take the junk of daily life. cheap wine
glasses. scraps of newsprint. he didn’t drink. never learned
to drive, and to his regret died a virgin. the art critic of the
Wall Street Journal argues for a broader view, while the
editor-in-chief of Elle magazine slips from his body like jeans.
just tell me you love me. because libraries are a place of
richness. and I am a book. I am a word. in the air which is
abundant. which allows us to say these things.
Note: "In the Attic of the House of the Dead: March 1-31, 1997" is part
of "A Book of Days," a year-long series of ten-line prose poems (that are
meant to be foratted into centered prose blocks on an 8 1/2" x 11" piece
of paper, fully justified with 2 inch right and left margins). The project
will end January 31, 1998.
