*/ II find my seat on the train, stow my bag, sit, wait. Windows black, underground tunnel. A big red-haired man comes down the aisle. Big red beard, red plaid shirt, tight barrel chest. He enters the toilet, shuts the door. Train business continues, aisle traffic, baggage, reading lights, announcements about smoking and luncheon. But a sound is beginning to be heard. Like a clown screaming – wild loops, he must be jumping, throwing back his head – or an animal cornered, losing all hope. Muffled at first then louder, jabbing through the wall. People start to look around.
The Era of Having Famous Painter ParentsThe Era of Bypassing the Problematics of ArtThe Era of Learning to Write with Left HandThe Era of the Irish JournalThe Era of Doing Rosicrucian Exercises Every Night After Supper and Mailing Them to California The Next DayThe Era of Taming the Cunning EgoThe Era of Transfiguring the Physical Body Atom by Atom Into a Creature Able to Float At Ease Through Silken SpaceThe Era of Adopting a Satanic Laugh MaskThe Era of Many Voices Humming in One’s Innermost
HER FUNERAL is in Sankt Johannes nine years after his. THAT GOLDSMUGGLER she fell in love with in Amsterdam is how he appears in her eulogy. BLUSH NO I never saw her blush. OPEN BOAT driving rain we go on a tour of the harbor she sits unprotected smoking. I FIRST met her on the telephone you don’t know me she said but your brother has just died in my bathroom. APPARENTLY THEY’D been married 17 years. WHAT’S THAT sound oh the dog you have a dog yes we have a dog no I have a dog. HER STORIES of his stubbornness fears Xmas dinners dope dog kindness to her mad mother and refusal to talk about the