Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Solo Hombre ha Nacido

That winter he stayed at the Peter and Paul Fortress overlooking the Shlisselburg fortress, where the worst of the worst were kept in cells no bigger than a toilette. Dejesus heard tell of a man, a simple man, who was jailed for impersonating a the Bishop of York, the man hanging shackled from a ring on the wall half-days and evenings. ‘sorry state of affairs… hanging a man by the ankles for faking a cleric’. The Witness, not being one to pity heathens and impostures, said ‘serves him right, the cunt… many a man wishes he were a bishop, but few make the grade’. The Peter and Paul Fortress, against which lay a fallen statue of man walking a dog, took in the overflow from the Overnight Asylum, boozers and halfwits, gibbering dunces and no-do-goods, the piebald and mealy mouthed, as many as they could squeeze in.

Over the gate to the Peter and Paul Fortress, written in the blackest India Ink, was the following, 'un Solo Hombre ha Nacido, un Solo Hombre ha Muerto en la Tierra', the gatekeeper chewing his cud plug. That winter, a cruel cold winter, the man in the hat kept vigil over his hat collection, worried that a scoundrel or a thief might make off with his favorite Mount Blanc toque, or worse, his Lääninhallitus fedora. The gatekeeper wore a sealskin cap with earflaps, mismatching his headgear with his checkered felt jacket. ‘behold’ he said, '...in God we trust, caps and all'. Not one for smalltalk the gatekeeper kept to himself, rearranging the card index and picking his ear with a matchstick. ‘round here we call that a vamoose’ he laughed, ‘...everyone last one of ‘em gets caught, then all hell breaks loose back in the jail, guards giving it to the dumber ones on account a their the one’s what’re always making a nuisance of ‘em selves’. The gatekeeper had few acquaintances, and those he did were mostly dead. The man in the hat had a faint recollection of a man with a felt cap shouting angry orders at a gate, people filing past him in single-file. It seemed that the day before the sky fell, which it did without warning, someone somewhere experienced a rash volley of stupidity, leaving them better equipped to deal with life’s folly. Gatekeeper and imbecile alike, someone somewhere felt a rush of stupidity curse through their very being.

Purcell Barroco chewed the ends of his fingers down to the bone, scarabs, fingers less fingers than caudal sticks. The door to the grave pitch double-locked, to keep in the dead and keep out the almost dead or dying dead. Behind the Wölfflin’s flophouse one could find, should one have a nose for such things, creel grackle, summoned up from deep within the bog running counterclockwise to the bottommost grave posts. It was here, next to the topmost grave post, that Hedwig (sister to Simon, Kaspar and Klaus) buried her innermost thoughts, her fingers clamming dead earth.

No comments:

About Me

My photo
"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

Blog Archive