3. JERRY WILSON
Chapter 2
The tractor trailer rig was pulled over to the side of the freeway on-ramp, its
diesel engine rattling. Hand-scrawled in large white letters on the rear mud flaps
were the words Show Me Hooters.
“O-kay,” said Melvin aloud. He took a last few big drags off his cigarette,
flicked the butt, and heaved himself up from the asphalt. He tossed the piece of
crumpled piece of cardboard on which he’d written IDAHO into the brush,
grabbed his pack and headed for truck.
Buzz Porterfield Trucking, Fontana, CA, read the decal on the door. Melvin
pulled it open. A little white poodle stood on the passenger seat, barking and
snapping.
“Shut up, Teddy,” growled the driver, thumping the dog on the head with a
meaty finger. The dog turned and jumped into the driver’s lap. “Hop in,” said the
driver to Melvin. “Put your gear back there in the sleeper.”
Melvin pulled himself up into the cab, stowed his pack, and eased his ass
down. The air-ride seat was a relief.
“I’m Buzz,” said the driver, petting the blinking dog. Buzz was a wiry, lumpy
old man with tanned leathery skin, striated and furrowed. His head was bald
except for a few curly tufts around his inordinately large hairy ears. His nostrils
3
4. were enormous and he was missing all his top teeth. “This here’s Teddy,” he said.
“He’s feeling his age and he’s a little grouchy but he’s okay.”
“Melvin Mohl,” said Melvin, shaking Buzz’s hand.
Where about in Idaho are you headed?”
“To the mountains.”
Buzz frowned. “There are a lot of mountains in Idaho, Bub.”
“The Sawtooths,” said Melvin. “Somewhere around Larkspur.”
“Well, I’m on the way to Seattle,” said Buzz. “I can drop you at the truck
stop at Jerome. From there, Larkspur’s just up Highway 75 a hundred miles or
so.” The rig groaned slowly forward.
“Where’s Jerome?” Melvin pulled out a grimy dog-eared map, unfolded it,
and traced a dirty finger along the line representing the interstate. He ran his
hand through his oily black hair and wiped the droplet of liquid snot from the tip
of his slightly hooked nose. The action left a dark smudge on his nose and upper
lip. The droplet of snot immediately re-formed.
“It’s close to Twin Falls. Once we cross the border into Idaho, Jerome’s
about a hundred miles to the northwest. Where do you come from?”
“Moroni, Utah.”
“Where the hell’s that?”
“Pretty much dead center of the state. Small town, maybe 1,200 people.”
“Nice place to live?”
4
5. “I suppose, if you like church and Lawrence Welk.”
Buzz chuckled at that. “What’s in the Sawtooths?”
“Wilderness. No people. No CIA.”
“CIA?”
“Yeah, they’re after me, have been for years. In Vietnam I was a member of
this top-secret commando unit. Assassinations, stuff like that. Once the war was
about over, the government decided to eliminate all the members of the unit, you
know, to keep the whole dirty business a secret. They got everybody but me. I
barely made it out. I was on the last chopper out of Saigon before the city fell. I’ve
been hunted like a dog ever since. I’m careful, though. I’ve never listed my phone
number and I don’t use a computer. They can read your fingerprints through the
keyboard.”
“You don’t say,” said Buzz, raising his eyebrows. “Sounds like you read a lot
of spy novels.”
“No. I read mostly westerns,” said Melvin.
Squinting in the glare of the bright afternoon sun, Buzz watched
thunderheads scudding in the distance, darkening large swaths of flat whitish-
ochre landscape.
“Must be tourist season,” said Melvin. There are Utah state flowers all over
the place.”
“Yeah?”
5
6. Melvin pointed out the plastic grocery bags that lay flattened and filthy
along the shoulder of the highway or snagged on the branches of the sage
fluttering and snapping in the wind. “The state flower of Utah is a Walmart bag. A
lot of people don’t know that.”
“I didn’t know it,” said Buzz, watching a bag rolling across the highway like
tumbleweed.
“It’s actually an invasive species, like cheat grass. It’s only been a hundred
years since cheat grass migrated from China. Now it has all but choked out the
native fescue. Won’t be long before the Walmart bags choke out the rest of the
native flora.”
The conversation dropped off. Hypnotized by the monotonous hum of the
diesel engine, Melvin stared transfixed at the speeding landscape, the scrub and
sage, the discarded bottles and cans, the wheel rims and the huge shreds of tire
tread. (Buzz referred to the treads as ‘alligators.’) Gigantic granite buttes jutted
starkly in the distance. Their peaks were once tiny islands in the middle of Lake
Bonneville, the ancient lake that had once filled the Great Basin. The thought that
the entire state of Utah was once covered by an immensely deep Pleistocene lake
was agreeable to Melvin.
Buzz pulled the truck off the freeway and into a rest stop. “I have to take a
piss,” he said. With a groan he slowly hoisted himself up from his seat and
stepped back into the sleeper. “I don’t piss in truck stops. I use a jug. Truck stop
restrooms are filthy. Besides I’m never near one when I have to go, which is all
the goddamn time. These days I have the bladder of a teenage girl.”
6
7. Buzz rooted around the clothes and magazines and other debris scattered
on the floor of the sleeper. “Fuck a duck, I can never find anything around here.
That crazy dog buries everything. What’d you do with my piss jug, Teddy?”
Teddy was curled up asleep on the bunk. On hearing his name, he jumped
up and wagged his tail.
“Here’s that other shoe I’ve been looking for,” said Buzz. “Damn your eyes,
Teddy. Oh, here it is.” Buzz pulled a half gallon plastic milk jug from the debris. A
couple fingers of foamy piss swirled and churned at the bottom. He handed it to
Melvin. “Here, grab that. I’ll show you my system. You might need it before we
get to Idaho.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Melvin. “They got a crapper here.”
“Nonsense. You don’t want to use that shit hole. Here, unscrew the cap.”
Melvin sighed, took the bottle and screwed off the cap.
“Now take this in your other hand.” Buzz handed Melvin a can of
disinfectant spray. “After you piss you have to spray down the bottle. The spray
kills the germs, keeps the jug from stinking. Go ahead, give it a shot.”
Melvin gave the jug a couple of half-hearted spurts.
“No, not like that. Put your finger back on the nozzle.” Buzz reached over,
put his big hand over Melvin’s finger and pressed down. Spray shot from the can
in a long sustained burst, dousing the entire bottle, and filling the sleeper with a
thick, sickly-sweet swirling mist.
7
8. “That’s it,” said Buzz, grinning with approval. “Now you’re cookin’ with
grease.” With his bald head, huge cavernous nostrils, and big pointy ears, he
looked to Melvin like Nosferatu floating in a dense fog.
Melvin stepped out of the truck and lit a cigarette. He took several big drags
in quick succession. Teddy hopped down the steps, trotted across the asphalt and
into the scrub. Melvin watched him sniff around, lift his leg and piss on the sage
and the clumps of fescue.
Buzz emerged from the truck. “I feel like a new man,” he said. “You ready to
go? Where’s Teddy?”
“He’s out there somewhere.”
“Teddy, let’s go!”
The little dog came running.
“Mind if I finish my cigarette? There are a lot of nasty chemicals in that
disinfectant spray. Tobacco smoke helps neutralize them.”
“Okay by me,” said Buzz. “Just don’t take too long. I need to get to Seattle
sometime this month.”
“It get’s lonely out here,” said Buzz, once they were finally back on the road.
“Sometimes I like my lonely life, other times I can’t stand it. If I didn’t have
Teddy around I’m sure I’d go completely crazy. I miss women a lot. I often think
that when I finally retire and quit this shit I’ll find a woman to keep me company.
But then I’m reminded that I’m not a young man anymore. Nothing works right.
Shit, the last time I masturbated nothing came out.”
“O-kay,” said Melvin.
8
9. The truck began a climb up a long winding grade. Buzz attempted to drop a
gear but missed it. “Goddamn it,” he said. He quickly revved the engine and
managed to catch a lower gear as the rpm’s fell back down.
“You like driving?” asked Melvin.
“Yeah, I like it alright, except for the long hours. I’m getting too old for that
shit. When I was a kid I wanted to be a judge. I wanted to wear one of those long
black robes and bang that mallet and tell people to shut the fuck up. It never
happened though. I guess I had no idea how to make something like that happen.
Still don’t. I’ve had a thousand different jobs, none of them worth a damn. I
started this racket about 10 years ago. I thought it might be fun to be out here on
the road blowin’ diesel and eatin’ t-bones. Unfortunately, it’s anything but.
Driving over-the-road is a hard, dirty shit-payin’ job. He sighed and rifled
through some cassette tapes in the console. He selected one and put it in the
player. “Well, I’m a failure and there’s no gettin’ around that.”
“What the hell kind of music is this?” said Melvin, frowning. “It sounds like
some sort of alien elevator music.
“Bachelor pad music,” replied Buzz. “It civilizes the wilderness.”
“What do you call this crazy song?”
“Summer Samba. Walter Wanderley Trio. It’s Brazilian bossa nova.”
“Whatever that is.” Melvin picked up and tape case. “I’ve never heard of any
of these people. Tito Puente. Esquivel. Hey, I like this title—“El Marijuano.” He
laughed.
“That’s Xavier Cugat. He’s the shit. I have all of his records.”
9
10. “I thought truck drivers listened to country.”
“Don’t believe everything you think,” said Buzz.
“O-kay,” said Melvin.
“Did you happen to see what that last sign said?” asked Buzz.
“It said, ‘Welcome to Idaho,’” replied Melvin.
“Shit,” said Buzz, turning down the volume. “Do me a favor, will you? Reach
behind you in the sleeper and grab me that white plastic bag.”
“You mean this one that’s full of trash?”
“That’s the one.”
Melvin handed Buzz the bag. Buzz wound down the glass and grabbing a
hold on the bottom of the sack, emptied the contents out the window. “Fuck those
Idaho state cops,” he said contemptuously. “Born liars, every one of ‘em.”
Melvin watched in the mirror as the trash flew out across the road and into
the green wheat fields. He cracked his window. The air smelled faintly of feedlots.
Buzz pulled the rig off the freeway at the Jerome exit. “I’m hungry,” he said,
stopping the rig in the crowded lot of a truck stop. “You hungry? I’m buying.”
“Alright.”
Melvin had a quick cigarette in the lot waiting for Buzz to do his business.
Buzz finally stepped down from the cab tucking in his shirt. “Hold the fort down,
Teddy,” he said. He shut the door. Teddy was at the window barking as Buzz and
Melvin walked away.
10
11. The two ambled through the small multicolored city of idling trucks. The air
was foul with diesel exhaust. Cigarette butts, used condoms, wads of toilet paper,
and ubiquitous containers of discarded piss littered the filthy asphalt.
Seated at a booth, Buzz ordered chicken-fried steak with mashed red
potatoes and green beans cooked in butter and bacon and a side of Rocky
Mountain Oysters for Teddy. Melvin ordered coffee and an egg salad sandwich.
“That’s all you’re going to eat?” Buzz asked, regarding Melvin’s rail-thin
frame and slumping posture. “You need to put a little meat on those bones. This
place is a dump but the food’s good. Best food in a hundred miles. Besides, chicks
like guys with a little meat on them.” He pulled up his t-shirt and with one hand
and grabbed a healthy hunk of freckled white flab with the other. He laughed.
“It’s enough,” said Melvin. “I had a big breakfast. Besides, the cooks in
these places never wash their hands after they shit.”
“I imagine so,” said Buzz. He and Melvin sat in silence until the food
arrived.
“You ever eat Rocky Mountain oysters?” asked Buzz, through a mouthful of
mashed potatoes. Missing his top teeth, Buzz gummed his food in a wide circular
motion. “Teddy loves ‘em.”
“Once,” said Melvin, sipping his coffee. “I’ll usually try anything once. I’ve
tried rattlesnake, alligator... I’ve even eaten monkey brains.”
“Monkey brains?”
11
12. “Yeah, when I was in the Seals in Nam. For dinner one day Old Papa San
brought in a live monkey, cut off the top of his skull, scooped out the brains and
served them. They were good with beer.”
Buzz was disgusted. “You know you’re about to put me off my food with
that bullshit. I thought you were in the CIA. You were in the Seals too? You damn
sure don’t look the part.”
“People underestimate me all the time,” replied Melvin solemnly. He wiped
his nose with a dirty hand, leaving another smudge.
“I don’t doubt it,” said Buzz.
Melvin couldn’t hitch a ride so it was a long walk through the little town to
highway 75. At dusk he left the highway and, looking furtively around, climbed
through a rickety barbed wire fence. In a hollow between several Russian olive
trees, he spread out his sleeping bag and climbed in. He laid exhausted, smoking
and staring up at the patches of sky visible through the thorny branches. A large
cloud loomed grey and glittering white in the moonlight. It looked like a vast icy
mountain peak. Its austere coldness made Melvin dizzy. He stubbed out his
cigarette and shut his eyes. The Summer Samba wafted through his head. He’d
forgotten to ask Buzz if women actually flashed their tits at him out on the
highway. The thought of exposed golden breasts lulled Melvin to sleep.
12
13. YANNIS LIVADAS
Traduit par ANNE PERSONNAZ
5 Poèmes
Des étoiles filantes sur l’Alabama
Tu dis quelque chose et c’est un poème mort
N’attends rien.
Même l’indécence de nos cauchemars ne nous réveille pas.
A mon âge ils y réfléchissent encore les roublards.
Certains sont tellement volages
Autant que l’amour à l’intérieur du sang.
Autant que les étoiles filantes sur l’Alabama.
13
14. Je parle tout seul tandis que devant moi fleurissent les roses
trémières
Je mise seulement sur moi-même
je suis un jeu de hasard
mais si j’ai perdu
ou gagné
cela
seuls les autres
l’apprendront
quand devant eux fleuriront
les roses trémières.
14
15. La solitude je la subis
La solitude je la subis comme un accident
ou comme une allergie
le printemps est certain
tel le jour sur la nuit
au fond rien ne m’importe
mais est plus profond encore
de ne pas savoir en dedans si
surviennent allergies
accidents
je grandis avec mesure
les miroirs ou parlent
ou se brisent en entendant
ma propre voix
inspiration échéance
désastre salut
ils n’admettent pas de fin
les poèmes.
15
16. Les poètes déplorent le poème immortel
Les poètes déplorent le poème immortel
et c’est très relatif à cette
goutte au nez du moineau.
Le regard que me jettent tes seins
est immortalité
comme la préhension qu’a le moineau
avec ses petites pattes.
Les mers sont paroles
qui sortent de la bouche du rivage
et nous dénudés à consumer le futur
pour un cierge encore.
16
17. Poème
Une pluie dans mes mains meurt
comme des amis
qui ont cessé d’écrire
et veulent pénétrer par l’oreille de
la fleur le brouillard.
Si cela a quelque sens.
Cela déclare le noyau d’une deuxième
et d’une troisième vie là où elles trouvent le
vêtement les mites –
Là où les cils des
palmiers veillent la nuit en quelque château
de sable effondré
Et quant à la pluie, s’entremêlent
la pluie et les bruines aussi d’une métropole
retirée
dont les livres furent écrits comme une prière
d’une prose au style disparu
en sorte que
les pouces de la pluie cisèlent
et par-ci et par
là.
17
19. J.S. BREUKELAAR
The Box
Getting her in the box was one thing. Keeping her there was another. It took all
his expertise, all his savvy and imagination. She’d said they should do more
things together, so he wrote a running program (she loved to run) and in the
program, unlike reality, he was the better runner. Well, faster. She still had better
form. He’d give her that.
– I love it when we run together, she said when they emerged at the railway
crossing. The sun a yellow ooze at the horizon line. There was a juice bar across
the street; the sign blinking in the dusk. She’d order an apply lime frappe. He’d
have a latte and a mineral water. Her chest heaved and her face was flushed,
smiling at him. Her hands were on her hips, her nipples erect. She was panting.
You really push me. It’s all I can do to keep up with you.
He said, Keep up with me? I thought I’d lost you there at one stage. What were
you doing, going for bagels?
For a moment she looked aggrieved. Rather, something surfaced in her eyes, a
hurt that he hadn’t written it, and his fingers were a blur over the console as he
tried to fix it. She scared him sometimes.
– Just kidding, he said. You DID keep up with me.
– Pretty much, she said. Right?
– Right. And you look good. You got great form.
Confusion darkened her brow. Her head was tilted at an odd angle. His hands
froze over the console; what now? It was difficult to stay one step ahead over her
19
20. sometimes. Other times he could anticipate her every move, cut her off at the
pass.
– How could you tell? she said slowly. You were ahead of me most of the time.
In the dark, Andrew smiled. Too easy. She walked right into that one. He stagily
wiggled his fingers (like an orchestra conductor, he thought, or a surgeon) and
began to type, sparing the briefest of glances across the room at the girl lying in
the dark. Wires waved like tentacles from her head, flowing into the box. Lucy.
His first, his only love.
– Not all the time, Lu. Once or twice there, I slowed down enough to let you pass,
and you looked good. Really good. Best ass in the business, by the way.
Her blue eyes cleared. She beamed back at him. Took a step closer. He could
smell her shampoo (verbena), and sweat pooled at her throat, and he could taste
it at the back of his eyeballs and it tasted like tears.
Smells and tastes were a bitch to code.
-------
Lucy remembered the impact. They were fighting. She was at the wheel, so
technically it was her fault. It was always her fault. She would have been given (or
taken) the blame even if Andrew had been driving. But he wasn’t It was her. He
wouldn’t make her cry. He wouldn’t.
At first it was always dark. She did things in the dark. She was running, it
seemed. Or fucking. The dark was sexy. She was naked. She wanted to go home.
It was always around the corner, the ocean. She could hear it, almost smell it
beneath the soft smell of night. But she couldn’t see it. It made her tired.
The dark lifted a little and they were together again. He seemed different, a
changed man. They did more things together now.
He wasn’t angry any more. That was the difference.
Just sad.
-------
20
21. They were sitting at a booth. Outside the ocean roared. She was talking about her
work, about her boss who bullied her because she was hot for her. Everyone was
hot for Lucy, even her boss, Kate who was married to Annette, at home raising
their second child. Kate and Annette had been to their place for dinner. Kate’s
hungry eyes had followed Lucy around their small kitchen, and by the end of the
night, Annette was very drunk.
Andrew wrung his hands over the keyboard, remembering. He shook his head
and reached for the canned coffee on his desk. The little apartment was in
darkness. Outside the freeway roared. Was it day or night? He had one cupboard
filled with Korean canned coffee and another filled with bottles of Bacardi rum.
When they ran out he ordered more and the bottles or cans arrived in a box left at
the front door to their apartment. At the beginning it was easy to tell whether it
was Bacardi time or coffee time. But somewhere along the line he got them mixed
up and started drinking Bacardi in the day and coffee at night. It didn’t matter.
The Korean Joe tasted like rum now and vice versa. The mind was a strange
thing.
Lucy looked tired. She had hot red rings under her eyes, and her lips were
cracked. Andrew pointed as politely as he could to the blood oozing from her ear.
– I’ll be right back, she said, getting up to go to the rest room. After she was gone,
Andrew brushed shards of glass off the seat. When she came back, she’d
freshened up some. Lucy wrote advertising copy for a boutique firm downtown.
He put a hand on her thigh while she talked. Andrew wasn’t really listening any
more.
– One day, he said. You can quit. Finish that novel you started. When I get the
promotion.
Andrew worked for an engineering firm in the Valley. Lucy leaned against him in
the dark. Beside the canned coffee was a bottle of Bacardi. Andrew took a swig. In
the beginning he had mixed the rum in Snapple. But when the Snapple ran out he
didn’t order any more. One less cupboard to worry about.
– I’d like that, she said. I love you.
21
22. Before he could tell her he loved her too, a swarm of her friends pushed through
the front door of the bar, letting in a gust of cold sea air (she’d always wanted to
live on the coast). Andrew felt his brow furrow. He hadn’t written them in! He’d
never write them in. Pretentious asses. He drew an angry right-to-left smear
across the bottom of the console and they hesitated and a few of them turned
around and went back out, but some of the others kept coming. They mobbed the
booth and squeezed in around Andrew and Lucy, reaching for the bottle of rum
and passing it round. Swigging from it. One of her friends started talking about
film theory and then someone chimed in about individualism and modernity and
then the split subject came up and the mind-body problem, and Andrew, who was
a civil engineer and worked for a firm in the Valley designing bus stations, and
who had no idea of who Fassbinder was, or Deleuze or Horkheimer, huddled over
the console in the dark with the bottle of Bacardi between his naked thighs, and
flicked at a Korean canned coffee with the back of a bitten fingernail. Across the
room at the center of a swirling system of colored lights and buttons, the box
hummed and Lucy lay there with her wild mane of wires and behind her closed
eyelids, pulsed worlds within worlds.
He’d created them all.
-------
Lucy’s friends seemed different somehow. She felt cut off from them. They looked
right through her, talked as if she wasn’t there, yet she felt exposed somehow.
Naked. Her flesh tingled and her muscles screamed. They were all so interesting,
so smart. She was blessed, really. She’d known them forever, some since grade
school and now here they were, with their beards and thrift store glasses frames
and dogeared books on Horkheimer they pulled from the pockets of retro leather
jackets. Andrew loved them too. He said so. So why was he pulling away, and
pulling her away too? He had her under both arms and was pulling her out of the
smoking wreck and her friends recoiled in horror, waving with a ghastly cheer.
Lucky waved back tentatively, glancing up at Andrew’s unshaven chin, his
blistering neck.
His hand was so hot on her thigh, too, twitching nervously. She gently removed it,
got up and weaved through the bar to the restroom. She looked like hell. Maybe
22
23. that was why he was acting strange. She lifted her head to the ceiling to stop her
nose bleeding (it bled all the time these days) and, as a distraction, she tried to
decipher the bleeding cracks on the ceiling.
I love you, the cracks said. The blood seeped from the cracks and dripped down
onto her upturned face, so it must be true.
------
– What I want, she had started to say (he wished she’d keep both hands on the
wheel).
Andrew knew what she wanted. He knew her better than she knew herself
sometimes. She would write. The boss bullied her but Andrew would rescue her,
free her so she could finish her novel. Just as soon as he got that promotion. Her
friends were bad for her. They made her feel inadequate. He was sure the
Horkheimer dude had a thing for her still. They’d dated for a while before
Andrew came along. Lucy said she loved how Andrew was different than her
friends (dumber?) but got along with them all so well. Had she ever even noticed
that he hardly said a word when they were around?
When they called the apartment he told them she was resting. His hands flew
over the console. After a while they stopped calling. So did the hospital. Thank
Christ. They were all to themselves now and for the first time Andrew felt that she
was truly his. He gave her whatever she wanted. If he didn’t know what she
wanted, he made it up. He could hear her in the next room tapping at her
keyboard and he smiled in the dark. He’d given her that. Her boss fired her and
Andrew was put in charge of a meaty new project that supported them both
(dreams were easy to code). The typing had stopped and in its place was a restive
silence. Sometimes she paced like an animal wanting to get out. He would bring
in her morning coffee—he checked his watch, was that a.m or p.m? He heard a
noise behind him or in front of him, it was hard to tell. Directions were hard to
code. She stood behind a door, slightly ajar. She was naked. He hadn’t written in
a door. She had an athletes’s body. A flat stomach, high full breasts. Naked was
easy.
23
24. – Would you like to play chess? she said. They’d learnt together, studied the
moves and strategies from the Internet.
– The movie is in an hour, he said. Don’t you have to get ready?
She wrinkled her forehead. One of her eyes had come loose from its socket in the
accident. The side of her face had blistered down to the bone. Andrew frantically
worked the keyboard.
– You’re right, she said. I need to get cleaned up. I look like hell.
She turned away. Andrew closed the door behind her and bit off a moan. Between
her nuggety shoulder blades, a wide shard of the windscreen pierced her spine.
Andrew’s legs felt wobbly. He was naked too. His body was not, in reality,
athletic, just skinny, wasted away on a diet of Bacardi rum and microwave pizza.
-------
He looked great. Adonis-like. It must be all the running they were doing together
these days. She’d gotten faster, though, or he’d gotten slower.
– Come here, she said.
– I can’t. I don’t know where you are.
His voice was loud in her earphones. She tried not to streak ahead but couldn’t
help it sometimes. He panted to keep up with her, but he never could. She waited
for him at the cafe and he’d arrive, gasping, suggest a way for her to improve her
form. The ocean roared. She fingered the volume down on her control.
– I’m here, she said. Where you put me.
There he was. His face was a little blurred, like a face in the rain. She peered
around the cafe at the flickering walls. Where was the door? She could hear
movement and murmurs in the dark.
– Where? he said. He looked up from his console. When had he stopped being
angry?
– Over here, she said. In the box.
24
25. His head slowly turned to look at her. He had coffee on his chin. He was naked. A
cord flowed from somewhere behind his ear and he dragged it behind him as he
stood up and approached the bed. He stank of rum. Above his sunken belly, his
chest was still scarred from the accident. He reached out a hand to her twitching
fingers, touched them, and drew it back.
– Let me out, she said. You can’t keep me here forever.
– Please, he said.
– If I’m in the box then so are you. But you don’t have to be.
– Lu—
– I’ll be okay on my own. It’s what I want.
He wiped the dribble off his chin with a shaking hand and turned back to the
console. Standing over the keyboard, he began to type. She could tell he was
crying. The light reflected off his bony ass. Behind him she could see the twilit
beach. She limbered up and began to run.
25
27. TONE SKRJANEC
translated by ANA PEPELNIK and MATTHEW ROHRER
Four poems
Sittin’ On Top Of the World
I’m sitting in the middle of a hill and rolling a cigarette.
with its fatherly gentleness the sun is warming up
our little community: me,
a patch of heather and the bees
that are buzzing and hopping from one
tiny pink blossom to another.
it’s just hills all around,
girlishly curly.
and a church on top of each one.
the slope is full of white,
wide open hellebores.
some of them are totally red.
spruce trees are still convincingly green.
perfect silence, only the chatter of birds,
some car in the distance,
the tireless dog barking
in the valley.
27
28. sittin' on top of the world
sredi hriba sedim in si zvijam cigareto.
sonce z očetovsko blagostjo greje
našo malo skupnost: mene,
zaplato resja in čebele,
ki brenče poskakujejo z enega
majhnega roza cveta na drugega.
vsenaokrog sami griči,
prav dekliško nakodrani.
in na vsakem kakšna cerkev.
pobočje je polno belih
na stežaj odprtih telohov.
nekateri so čisto rdeči.
smreke še naprej prepričljivo zelene.
čista tišina, le čebljanje ptic,
kakšen avto v daljavi,
neutruden pasji lajež
v dolini.
28
29. Afternoon with Miller
While the men were
crouched in dust arguing
about bocce
a woman on a balcony
crossed her legs
and exhibited
a breathtaking piece of thigh
covered with tiny bright hair
which, of course, you couldn’t see.
29
30. Popoldne z Millerjem
Medtem ko so se možje
čepe v prahu prerekali
o balinanju,
je ženska na balkonu
prekrižala nogi
in razstavila
čudovit kos stegna
prekrit z drobnimi svetlimi dlakami,
ki se jih seveda ni videlo
30
31. A Night in the Night
Again I’m reading more.
Probably because it’s fall.
Sometimes I sit a while at dusk,
eavesdropping on the sounds
hiding in silence.
I watch the scenery
which evades all laws.
I feel touches
which others don’t.
It’s night and tens of
little dead suns
sway in a black river
which is smooth from afar
and mysterious
like skin.
31
32. Noč v noči
Spet malo več berem.
Verjetno zaradi jeseni.
Včasih dalj časa sedim v mraku
in prisluškujem zvokom,
ki se skrivajo v tišini.
Opazujem pokrajino,
ki se izmika vsem zakonitostim.
Čutim dotike,
ki jih drugi ne.
Noč je in na desetine
majhnih mrtvih sonc
se pozibava v črni vodi reke,
ki je od daleč gladka
in skrivnostna
kot koža.
32
33. A Poem in the Shade
I sit in the shade of an old bay laurel. I’m smoking
and pretending to write. As if I’m
deep in my thoughts I stare through infinity.
A cup with tea, my afternoon meal,
is empty. Just like memories,
digested several times. Buzzing of flies
and indistinct voices from a distance. I’m looking
at luxurious passion flowers. Totally ripe
orange fruits and completely unbelievable
blossoms with antennas built
in floors. All this miracle on a single limb.
I can’t scent any higher truths.
The sun that creeps through limbs of a bay laurel
is feeding on my body. A midge on the tip of my nose.
I’m still remembering, feeling, seeing.
I write this down. I write a painting.
Words aren’t always a game.
33
34. Pesem v senci
Sedim v senci starega lovora. Kadim
in se delam, da pišem. Kot da sem
globoko zamišljen, zijam skozi neskončnost.
Skodelica s čajem, moj popoldanski obrok,
je prazna. Kot so prazni že večkrat
prebavljeni spomini. Brenčanje muh
in nerazločni glasovi iz daljave. Gledam
razkošen grm pasijonke. Čisto zreli
oranžni sadeži in popolnoma neverjetni
cvetovi z antenami in zgrajeni
v nadstropja. Ves ta čudež na eni veji.
Nobenih višjih resnic ne zavoham.
Sonce, ki se splazi skozi veje lovora,
se pase na mojem telesu. Mušica na koncu nosa.
Še naprej se spominjam, čutim, vidim.
To zapišem. Napišem sliko.
Besede niso vedno igra
34
35. THIBAULT DE VIVIES
Deux tentatives
Le temps que ça passe.
J’ai soulevé le couvercle, dans les environs pas de quoi s’arrêter en chemin, faut
faire au plus vite, j’ai descendu les marches en sous-sol, la petite visite des bas-
fonds, pas de lumière avant d’atteindre l’interrupteur, l’arrivée en douceur faut
espérer, pas de quoi appeler à l’aide, au plus discret bien au contraire, il me
manque le jeune homme à la peau blanche, perdu là-haut en chemin, pas le
temps de le porter dans mes bras, pas le temps de sauver sa peau, plus mon
problème, ça accourt de tout partout, y’a à fuir.
J’ai descendu les marches quatre à quatre avec en chemin les chocs contre la
paroi, les gouttes de sang à essuyer sur le front dégagé avant la sortie nocturne, la
boule à zéro pour que ça repousse avec une nouvelle tête pour tromper l’ennemie
dans les temps à venir, j’atteins le fond du trou noir la cachette, avec la prière qui
m’accompagne, quelques mots pour rassurer le Seigneur Dieu du ciel et de la
terre qui saura me pardonner lui, si ce n’est la communauté des hommes.
***
J’ai souvenir d’être resté là le temps que l’orage passe au-dessus, la petite
protection au-dedans de la terre, personne pour me rappeler aux mauvaises
pensées, le jeune gars abandonné là-haut sur la voie, suffisamment de bonnes
âmes autour maintenant le courage à disposition pour s’occuper du malheur du
souffrant amoché, mais allez donc je vous en prie y’a à faire, ramasser les pots
cassés, je vous laisse, j’ai pas à présenter ma culpabilité à la face du tout venant,
suffisamment à faire avec le créateur qui réclame les comptes au jour le jour.
35
36. J’ai coché sur le mur les heures qui passent en décomposition de minutes et de
secondes avant ça, l’objectif à atteindre la durée d’une nuit à venir avec une garde
en préliminaire avant d’aller chercher le sommeil réparateur sur le moelleux
empaillé de la paillasse, j’ai ce temps raisonnable à occuper en ne pensant pas
trop, c’est à garder pour les prochains jours de communion avec le très haut,
l’envie et le besoin de se reconstruire avant la prochaine sortie.
J’ai réchauffé au gaz le reste de viande dans le torchon, du manger chaud pour
ressourcer mon corps assis sur la pierre, le cul qui s’endurcit à force de
sollicitation, j’ai mon temps de solitude heureuse, loin des bruits encombrants de
la cité ronde ces temps-ci, les pensées malsaines en vadrouille et c’est tant mieux
pour ce soir, faut le repos du guerrier pour les heures à suivre.
***
J’ai souvenir d’avoir relu mes notes, les celles prises sur le carnet de route avant
le drame, d’avant que ça arrive, pour que ça se passe au mieux la préméditation,
je sais bien ce que je veux et je sais bien comment je peux y arriver, le plan des
rues sans nom du quartier, de quoi se perdre si tu ne fais pas au mieux avec la
concentration de tous les instants, j’ai allumé la lampe torche, personne qui
m’empêchera d’accomplir la mission, celle qui m’a été attribuée ce jour, les ordres
du Très-Haut.
J’ai pas eu à faire avec de la complicité, et laquelle d’ailleurs? Qui va suivre le
mal-foutu? Qui va faire confiance? Je préfère opérer seul, juste moi et les
comptes à rendre au Divin, bien suffisant, merci de me donner du travail, je fais
au mieux pour m’y prendre avec la manière, satisfaire Mon Seigneur Dieu,
suffisamment de bâtisseurs à l’œuvre, j’ai ma seule responsabilité dans l’affaire.
***
36
37. Je l’ai bien vu le jeune homme, me regarder de travers, par les yeux en dessous,
quand je passe pas loin au retour de la balade, je ne le supporterai pas longtemps
le trajet contrariant vers le temple, ma brûlure sur le flan qui jusque là était
cachée, maintenant à découvert par sa faute, la croix divine incrustée au fer
blanc, il a montré du doigt le sale gars pour les tous ceux qui sont mis au courant,
désormais on connaît ma monstruosité et on raconte les méchancetés au-prés du
feu, j’entends au loin qu’on se moque de moi par sa faute à lui, on parle de celui
qu’a encore la foi, abandonnée de tous en ces temps raisonnables.
L’a bien fallu que je ne laisse pas faire à me laisser pisser dessus verbalement, l’a
bien fallu que j’intervienne, l’a bien fallu que j’y plante le bâton dans le flanc
gauche pour l’équité, où j’ai la marque de brûlure t’auras la trace de mon passage,
la plaie refermée avec l’insensibilité au toucher d’une cicatrice qui se voit,
l’impureté du corps à jamais, le complexe qui ne part pas, je ne sais pas si tu y
survivras à l’acte criminel dicté par la main du seigneur, ma caution divine, je
poursuis ma route vers d’autres aventures.
***
J’ai souvenir d’avoir essuyé le sang sur le bâton, la matière rouge ça contamine
l’objet, je nettoie toute la longueur, je replace dans l’étui, je range dans le sac,
mon petit rituel bien réglé, je ne touche à rien d’autre, je finis mon assiette en
léchant les contours, les restes faut pas les gaspiller, j’ai la satisfaction du bien
manger du bien bu j’ai la peau du ventre bien tendu merci petit jésus, la nuit
s’annonce longue et profonde, avant ça je repasse à la main en appuyant bien fort
le col blanc de mon habit noir ouvert sur les côtés, à faire tremper pour le jour à
venir.
J’ai eu les rêves peuplés de créatures immenses et nauséabondes, elles
m’entourent les bêtes de leurs grands bras protecteurs, elles me disent ça va aller
t’en fais pas trop mon bonhomme, elles serrent bien fort à m’en faire péter la
respiration, je ne ressens plus rien, je m’élève au-dessus de mon corps, je ne vois
pas la lumière blanche au bout du tunnel, j’ai la grande déception, je décide de
revenir en moi pour prolonger ma vie bien remplie après tout.
37
38. ***
Au petit matin, j’ai plié mes affaires, j’ai enroulé la paillasse, j’ai embrassé le
crucifix, j’ai tout mis les résidus cartonnés du repas de la veille dans le sac
plastique à jeter, j’ai laissé l’espace aussi propre que je l’avais trouvé en entrant,
j’ai la sueur au front, je monte les marches vers la lumière du jour, je relève le
couvercle sur la rue et je marche les quelques pas pour m’éloigner de l’ouverture,
pour ne pas éveiller les soupçons, j’ai repris ma vie de tous les jours jusqu’à la
prochaine mission, la petite voix divine au creux de l’oreille qui me montre la
direction, à qui le tour cette fois-ci ?
38
39. Tentative de pourquoi ici ou ailleurs… (1)
Tentative de pourquoi ici ou ailleurs je n’ai rencontré que désolation sur mon
chemin dans la lande au sortir de la cité j’avance à petits pas dans la direction du
lointain et je me nourris de ce que je trouve à disposition quelques fruits ou
herbes énergétiques qui feront bien l’affaire et je pense à ce que j’ai laissé derrière
moi quelques amis mais peu de femmes qui pleurent à mon départ en agitant le
mouchoir blanc pour l’adieu de circonstance, je sais bien que je n’y reviendrai pas
non pas question de revenir en arrière Messieurs Dames faudra faire avec mon
absence pour de bon ou pour un temps mal défini je m’éloigne de la cité qui ne
veut plus de ma présence dans les parages ça non suffisamment de mal répandu
autour de moi, à venir au bout du chemin caillouteux la possible rencontre avec
les peuplades du nord oui de celles qui ne séjournent pas plus d’un temps
nécessaire pour construire au pied d’une source une petite cité dans laquelle on
laissera deux d’entre eux un homme et une femme pour qu’ils repeuplent la zone
et peut importe l’âge tant pis même s’ils n’ont pas atteint la puberté ils trouveront
de quoi survivre et le procédé pour acquérir une descendance coûte que coûte on
sait bien que la nature fait son travail comme il faut, j’ai le bonjour chaleureux ce
jour de grande prière dans la peuplade on n’est pas dans les meilleures
dispositions pour la grande disponibilité pour l’étranger alors faut que je fasse
l’effort de circonstance c'est-à-dire le sourire sur le visage et la main tendue
fermement en signe de paix, je ne veux pas déranger bien sûr mais juste peut-être
de quoi me nourrir et boire un peu c’est rester quelques temps en leur compagnie
peut-être quelques jours pour reprendre des forces c’est qu’on n’a pas le moral au
beau fixe et l’aventure ne fait que commencer, les enfants en âge m’ont
questionné sur où est ma demeure et quelle langue je peux bien parler et
curieusement je les comprends moi sans qu’eux en retour n’entendent mes
réponses ou bien à demi mot pas plus alors faut accompagner les mots par des
gestes qui racontent la petite maison sur la grande place de la cité on venait me
39
40. rendre visite pour les soins à l’âme que je prodiguais à qui voulait bien qu’on
cherche au-dedans de leur tête si on y jette un œil alors peut-être y trouverons-
nous un petit quelque chose à guérir, les enfants ont eu peur de mes gestes qui
pointent du doigt vers la tête on me dit qu’il ne faut pas faire ça non surtout ne
pas indiquer montrer du doigt la boite à cerveau on me dit que ça peut envoyer de
mauvaises ondes dans la tribu les croyances sont tenaces alors attention de ne
pas effrayer les enfants mais trop tard ils se sont éloignés en courant dans tous les
sens en ordre dispersé et peut-être qu’ils n’y reviendront plus vers l’étranger qui
trimbale avec lui tout son lot de fantasmes pour les générations à venir qui
repeupleront la lande, les gouvernants tribaux ont su malgré tout m’accueillir
avec les honneurs malgré tout on me propose de partager le manger et le boire et
on me prépare la paillasse pour cette première nuit de sommeil les rêves clairs
d’une immensité verte qui peine à se régénérer alors comme on peut on achemine
l’eau pour éviter que le vert ne se transforme en jaune et que la vie déserte
totalement les lieux, je dors en profondeur et n’entends pas l’agitation importante
d’un environnement en mutation constante c’est que la nuit est plus fraîche que
le jour dans la lande alors on s’agite pour ne pas sombrer et se laisser envahir par
les mauvais esprits du froid qui paralysent les bonnes pensées il est dit, au réveil
je suis bel et bien seul autour du feu plus aucun membre de la tribu mais peut-
être seulement quelques traces de leur passage mais pas plus de quoi attester
d’une présence passée non pas plus pour en avoir le cœur net alors bien sûr l’a
fallu que je me redresse et que je reprenne la route pour la prochaine étape à
quelques milles de là un nouveau peuple ou une nouvelle cité se présenteront
peut-être avec de nouveaux repères à prendre mais en attendant merci bien du
voyage entre veille et réalité qui sait ce qu’il y a à retenir de l’une et de l’autre.
www.tentatives-lesite.net
40
53. SCOTT ROGERS
Seven poems
Looking back I realize now I never had a chance to win her over.
we sat in her closet
because she was afraid
of
thunder storms.
i had a shoe
lodged up my ass
as
she spoke.
she told me the stories
of her
youth
past loves
the things that made her
not
believe in love
anymore.
sudden bursts of light
as
she flicked her lighter
53
54. and tried
to burn the
ends of
a jacket.
we smoked one
down
and then she moved in
on
me
demanding sex
her hands violent
against my
skin
kisses
shot with reckless
abandonment
she
climbed on top
and
rode herself silly
finally
climaxing as thunder
roared in muffled
spurts
just outside.
there was the smell
of
sex sweet
and
hot as we laid there
together
still sweating
54
56. as my heart fell
from your hands
and
shattered there upon the floor
all the pieces
matched the patterns on your dress
exactly
56
57. listening to Nick Drake
her panties
slowly descending
to
the floor
the brush and tickle
of her
hair
across my chest
as
we kiss
gentle candles dance
with
shadows
upon the wall
and
ceiling
words spoken
wet
syllables pronounced
hard
in the end
we
were both fucked
57
58. a Bible
a pair of brass knuckles
a knife from my dead uncle
a used wedding ring
and a stuffed sheep named Carl
this is all I have to get me till dawn
58
59. exhaustion
exhaustion.
weak coffee in a broken cup
lukewarm at
best.
thoughts of you stick like
napalm
and burn me beyond
recognition.
i sit naked on the side of the tub
head in hands
trying to remember
when and why.
my youthful resolve
is now
empty
and the numbness of
all those years
all those wounds
is
starting to wear off.
59
60. either one
perhaps it was the malt liquor
in a red plastic cup
or the girl with a heart murmur
who sat on the roof
quoting Vonnegut
as she jerked me off
in the moonlight
60
61. BENOIT VINCENT
Farigoule bastard, berger des baronnies (Extraits)
IV
Alors se rend farigouleBASTARD chez l’ami Picris. Picris loge dans une vieille
masure, un peu à l’écart de la rue la plus excentrée depuis la fontaine • celle de la
place. Sa maison n’en touche aucune autre. Elle est cernée de grandes herbes et
l’été, c’est à peine qu’on parvient en son perron. Qui est une grande dalle
constituée de pierres de Taulignan, levées, couchées, venues de loin, à pied. Les
avoines et carottes s’écartent au pas de farigouleBASTARD, ainsi les laitues
montées et piquantes. Il ne frappe pas, mais gratte un peu le bois charnu,
desquamé de la porte, puis la pousse. Hé, lance-t-il en traversant la cuisine, qui
est nue, propre. Picris est de l’autre côté, dans l’espace vague qu’il s’est constitué,
d’herbes folles et d’arbustes glanés sur les collines, dont certains n’ont pas
survécu au transfert ou au voyage. ”Alors prêt ?”, en voyant arriver l’autre.
farigouleBASTARD hoche. Ils s’assoient comme à l’accoutumé des beaux jours,
sous le tilleul qui ferme le terrain. Derrière une ligne d’aurioles, les paliures se
sont parés des boucliers. Après les quelques pieds trop vieux de vigne, voilà la
forêt qui ceint non seulement le territoire de Picris, mais tout le village et grande
partie de la vallée. Mauvaise forêt de blaches qui ne grandissent pas mais
embâclent quand même les va-et-vient — et recèle toutes les bêtes. Chacun
extrait son petit cube de tabac gris, et c’est toujours un étonnement de le voir
entier, solide, fermement cubique, alors que permanent serré dans les gilets, les
gibecières, ou les mauvaises sacoches. Ils ne parlent guère, chacun plus minéral,
mais entre eux c’est soudé, coopérant, compatissant. Syntone. « Tu as vu Celle
ces jours ? — Non. » (Silence de cigale, de martinets.) « Tu entraînes Sabrina ? —
61
62. Oui. » (A nouveau.) « Je prends un abricot. — Va. » Lorsqu’il franchit la ligne
végétale que les clôtures miment, les nuit glissent sur les serres et dans les
combes. C’était leur séparation, qui s’est terminée au vin piquette. Âpre est le jour
qui vient.
62
63. 5
Je m’appelle Ierevan, mes amis, quand j’en ai, m’appellent Evgenj, et encore
Zheka. J’ai vingt-sept ans. Je suis arrivé par la terre, ou par la mer, ou par les
airs, qu’importe. Nous sommes venus six, et cinq ont effectivement posé le pied
sur ton sol ; nous avons exigé des nuits qu’elles nous portent jusqu’à toi ou aux
tiens. Nous avons excédé les limites qui nous avaient été imparties. Depuis
l’enfance, nous luisions d’une pâleur clandestine et, partant, suspecte. Nous
étions avides de cette lumière, nous clignotions. Nos mains s’allongeaient, et
nous perdions peu à peu le goût du panais ou du raifort. Nous avions soif
d’autres envergures. Nous attributs numéraux, et moi avions passé plus de
temps dans l’uniforme couleur taupe de notre Etat pacifié que nus, allongés, la
main sur la cuisse, brisés sur la ferraille de nos matelas à songer à des boissons
+ citron, à des cafés, au soleil, aux cultures de fruits. A des femmes moins pétries
par les mottes de terre que par le désir. Moi je rêvais surtout à des femmes ;
propres, aimables, affables. On avait un grand lac, et sur la suie noire de ses
poissons goulus de vases passaient des bateaux, qui transbordaient je ne sais
quelle marchandises pour vous autres, et nous n’étions pas plus mauvais
chargement que les racines ou les épices, ou tout ce qui transite par les cahutes
qui se font appeler port et sur quoi ingénument les bakchichs font office de cire
sigillée. Nos pluies transperçaient nos vêtements et la faim ne les tenait plus.
Alors moi, un feu jeune Frère, un cousin, et trois autres, nous avons chargé une
palette pleine de nous-mêmes, car tel était notre office payé en liasses de billets,
à croire qu’on se nourrissait comme des rats de cette paperasse qui n’achetait
rien, et on devait encore les distiller nous-mêmes les bouteilles d’alcool moisi
qu’on ne pouvait se permettre. Nous six embarqués par un ou deux autres, à qui
on avait promis de ramener une part de lune — pas sûr qu’ils aient le cran ceux-
là de sortir leurs sabots de leur glaire. On a passé les heures dans les cales,
celles-ci ou d’autres, dans les trains, ou les avions, accrochés de fortune à un
essieu, un carter ou un quelconque système précontraint fixé par frottement. Tu
connais la rouille ? On l’a tutoyée et traduite, on s’est inspiré de son art et on est
devenus tels. Et par chance, et par avalanches diverses et autres cabrioles, voilà
qu’on débarque d’un pays l’autre, chaque jour plus sales, on avançait, on ne
s’arrêterait qu’une fois atteinte la terre si longtemps allumée dans nos esprits.
Quand j’étais petit, il y avait un livre avec des oies qui portaient des enfants en
63
64. Cocagne. J’ai longuement patienté l’heure. Je suis resté assis devant le fleuve, à
voir s’écouler l’eau comme du sable ou un rêve ; j’ai pris l’ombre et le soleil, j’ai
longuement pissé dans le crépuscule. J’attendais le bon passage, le bon zodiaque
inscrit dans le ciel à la cartographie rapidement incrustée dans mon cœur. Les
nuages ont vogué, dessinant des formes grotesques et tour à tour majestueuses.
Puis la corneille a crié une fois. Nos maigres économies ramassées dans une
boîte de porphyre ou de jade, planquées dans un pan de bordure en dentelle de
la Volodga, et passées de l’un à l’autre selon un ballet savamment mesuré
(Klavdj avait étudié les mathématiques statistiques) de sorte qu’il ne soit jamais
séparé plus longtemps d’au moins deux de nos affûts ; nous nous relayions en
tout, et la mort de mon Frère a durablement déréglé notre machine, Klavdj
peinant à trouver non seulement le laps pour, mais aussi les moyens physiques
nécessaires (feuille propre et stylo fonctionnel) pour combiner une nouvelle
rotation à cinq. Nous sommes arrivés en ballottant, comme des balles de tissus
ou des poupées livrées au marché, dégueulasses, amaigris. En lieu et place de
notre cœur, c’étaient mille kilomètres de privations, d’humiliations, mais aussi
le vide de suffisance et de morgue, alors comme un seul corps, on s’est levé bien
vite le genou qui par légèreté passagère, ou distraction, s’était posé sur ce qui
allait devenir notre nouvelle maison possible, et on s’est mis debout…
64
65. B
1. farigouleBASTARD est simulacre / & pastiche / Les autres doutent de le
croiser / Il porte une fausse moustache / Postiche / On dit qu’il se résigne à sa
cabane. Il est renfrogné & ridicule / Il se terre comme un lièvre / Il est nu comme
un ver / Il est constamment terrorisé / On le voit dormir dans un camion,
trimballant des plaques de tôle ondulée, des drains multicolores de plastique /
On l’entend qui ahane comme un bœuf, qui chuinte comme un nourrisson / On le
voit aux zincs décatis miser de la rouille sur d’incertains paris / On le voit faire du
stop à deux endroits en même temps / On le voit guetter de porte en porte / Il se
glisse parfois dans les appartements et surprend les ébats secrets de Kévin et
Kelly / On le voit assis sur les marches du temple, à se caresser la barbe, une
bouteille serrée dans un sac de papier kraft / On le dénonce aux bonnes mœurs /
Il apparaît, mais pas de la même manière ; il passe de visage en visage, il se fond
dans la masse, il se confond. Il mime jusqu’aux marbrures et engelures de la nuit.
/ Il est plus souvent nommé qu’il ne parle et, si elles existaient, ses oreilles
préviendrait les pompiers ; son corps est avertissement de grand malheur / Il est
Ankou, oiseau de mauvais augure / On se détourne de lui / On lui jette des sorts
fétides / Il est impuissant / Il collectionne les pierres / Il harnache de vieilles
rosses, et leur soutire de l’avoine / Il est sans foi ni loi / Il a grandi avachi dans la
courbure de ses paupières / Il est self-made man, self-made Bastard. 2.
farigouleBASTARD est masque romain / un ancêtre. Masque tombal, on le tient
dans un meuble du hall d’entrée / Il est le Vieux dont on garde en souvenir le
petit ombilic, par superstition / Il est masque de théâtre, jour et nuit, lune-soleil,
son empressement à être évident est consternant / Il est bruit et fureur, colère,
tremblement / Il est geste brusque et morbus comitalis / Il est bave, pendant de
langue, et la rage / Il croque des coquilles vides & suce les pattes des crustacés / Il
est extravagance / Il accumule les heures, puis les mélange et les distribue au
hasard / C’est une machine à perdre / Il est désorientation, boussole brisée en
tombant sur un os / Alors il est passé dedans / Il évolue six pieds sous terre / Ses
moustaches sont roussies / Il marche au fond de l’enfer. Il a trouvé une voie,
personne ne peut dire / personne ne peut dire, pour revenir avec lui, ce qu’il y
fait, ni pourquoi il se plaît à y séjourner. Quand il nous échoie, il ne rapporte rien,
mauvais pêcheur — ou pécheur trop concerné / Il dévore le tribut de la mer, il
engloutit son content d’âmes en peine / Il est vessie & lanterne. 3.
65
66. farigouleBASTARD est un ours / torve habitant du dehors, du froid, de l’obscur /
Il s’entortille dans la chevelure du lierre et se roule sous les feuilles jusqu’à la
saison / Il ne paye aucun écot / Il germe / Il sème / Il insémine / Il se coule dans
les vignes, écrase le mout le marc pieds nus / Il boit comme un trou et se dandine
en gueulant sur le boulevard / Les fenêtres claquent ou ce sont ses dents / Il fout
le feu aux moissons / Il se couvre de fétus et disloque les gerbes et les ballots /
C’est un feu follet, il faut voir les razzias sur le champ / Il se laisse pousser la
barbe / Il veille aux toisons / Il hiberne sous le lit à peine nubile / Il éclate en
sanglot, à chaque lune gibbeuse, dans la tiédeur de leur laine / Il éructe larmes
aux yeux / Il porte un lourd gourdin en bandoulière, et s’en sert pour assommer
les fâcheux / Il chie à même le sol, voire au perron des habituels / Il patiente
comme le serpent et soudain déboule, se dresse bifide, une couronne de lauriers
sur la tête, général vainqueur, en chorégie de pacotille, braquemard tendu à
éclater sous la toge, en goguette veineuse, vengeur, pour un triomphe de pétales
nouveaux, de confettis de corps, de gouttes de sperme. Sa gibecière est
cornemuse / Il souffle dans les urnes / Dans le bourdon des vielles et les éclats de
crécelles, il se branle à l’unisson.
66
67. TATJANA DEBELJACKI
Five poems
You believe - believe
It is only about your psyche, magical stories are literally stories for little children.
Magic takes the advantage of the fact that a man’s psyche affects his physiognomy
– if you believe that something bad will happen to you, it will. When you are
reading or thinking about things you must do it critically – you can’t believe
everything you read or you are told. Books on parapsychology are mainly written
with the purpose to make money and they usually publish terrible lies …
Once again, and most importantly, magic works only if you believe in it …
67
68. A Pyramid and a Cathedral
True poets do not fear facing the lighting of truth, the times long gone which
merge into a life dimension. Times fly, thoughts fly. An eventful experience! We
cannot help uniting. Don’t be far away, stray words. I looked at my ancient
manuscript. Each conceals a pearl! A storm is raging, a lightning hits crystal
clouds, a hero fugitive, a dog under a tree, a cabin in fog. You, a beast of flesh, a
spaceship from cartoons. You can say it is unstability in your horoscope! Our
dreams touch! Miracles of logos, infinite moves, right and left, Yang and Yin, Abel
and Cain ...
Who is going to win, black or white? Magical attractions
68
69. THE PAIN
I take a nap and IT HURTS,
I fall asleep, wake up
IT HURTS
I think about something else
I feel THE PAIN
I look for myself,
I lie to myself,
I get drunk,
and IT HURTS,
and IT HURTS.
To die in the arms of someone who does not trust you
IT HURTS.
69
70. INSTEAD OF MY WILL
Before the sunrise,
Before the cock-a-doodle-do,
Barking of the dog,
And something else,
While I’m introducing myself,
I’m showing special attention
Laughing at
The double-echoing applause.
By the same sound they are revealing the secret.
Are these the people I used to know?
Why are they here?
I accept the boquets
Of withered words.
I don’t have time to dry the greeting,
To tune up the look.
To shake hands.
I’m in a hurry for thirsty Eros
Blisfully absent minded!
70
71. INCUBUS – INCUBI
Do you feel any aches in particular
Part of the body that any medications could relief,
Neither massage, nor any other therapy could?
Do you dream the dreams that become true?
Do you suffer from headaches often
Those with no real organic cause?
Does the «inner voice » sometimes
whisper that you should start an argument, smash, adore
the devil, do non-consensual sexual activities, incest and alike?
Do you feel repulsion towards
Praying and addressing to God?
No?
Do you have cramps or itches in any part of your body
With no real organic cause?
Do you have a feeling that someone is constantly following you
And influencing your life in a negative way?
Yes ?
I dream from time to time
I dream on regular basis
I do not dream
71
73. DELPHINE MICHEL
Lululand
Tout le monde finit par me demander : que fais-tu là-bas, qu’es-tu allé faire là-
bas, pourquoi là-bas ? Qu’est-ce que c’est que ce pays ? Ça paraît tellement
improbable, il faudrait une bonne raison pour. Il n’y en a pas.
Le premier souvenir est l’absence de pain, de vrai pain, fait par un boulanger avec
ses mains à lui, ses défauts à lui, trop de sel, pas assez de sel, trop cuit, pas assez
cuit. Du pain, quoi. Et ça passe dans les rêves comme un paradis perdu. Peu
importe que je l’aie mangé ou pas. Le drame est que je n’ai plus le choix de ne pas
le vouloir. Il y a ce pain au cube, parfait, moulé, insipide.
*er läekert*
Les portugais rehaussent bizarrement l’humanité par leur présence ultra- réaliste
et mélancolique. La saudade du quotidien. Un air grave même au supermarché.
Quelque chose qui donne le droit d’avoir l’air triste aussi tout en continuant. On
n’est pas venus ici pour rien. Donc.
Les frontaliers bataillent. Chance culpabilité ouverture opportunisme échange
effacement. Etre un peu là mais partir vite pour ne pas gêner, ne pas en faire trop,
jamais. Rester les moins payés, c’est sans doute acheter la paix, la paie, la paix.
On ne sait plus.
Travailler pour l’Europe. Quelle belle idée fierté utilité. Jusqu’à ce que. Le petit
monde fermé, le petit monde clôturé, le petit monde entre soi, le petit monde.
Mais.
Les maisons 1900 sont belles, belles jusqu’à l’euthanasie. On ne restaure pas, on
détruit au mètre, on construit au kilomètre, ravage. L’identité des murs. De si
belles maisons sur des rues entières, de toutes les couleurs. On attend que les
propriétaires ne puissent plus.
73
74. *Si vous souhaitiez changer d’habitation, nous serions à votre disposition pour
vous faire la meilleure offre en vue de l’optimisation de votre bien – Nous
sommes à l’écoute de vos besoins.*
Bam. Boum. Bim. Une rue d’immeubles. Energie positive, architecture parfaite,
trois étages seulement, parquets biologiques et trois places de parking en sous-
sol. Pour ton 4X4, ta bonne conscience et ton image.
Bénir les profs d’allemand. Finalement, elles avaient raison, c’était simple et
beau. Les profs de Lulu s’embrouillent dans les règles : on n’est pas tous d’accord.
Et nous ? Comprenez et répondez en français, ce sera déjà ça. Mais pas assez ça.
70% d’immigrants, autant de francophones. Les allemands jonglent, nous, on
rame. Quelques années. Puis ça vient. Trop tard, toujours trop tard.
Les anglais restent trente ans là en ne parlant qu’anglais. Stupéfaction.
Lululand est le pays idéal pour la famille Ingalls dopée au Cac40. Papa Maman
les enfants le chien, la maison l’école européenne les amis de vacances les parents
des amis des enfants.
Remarie-toi avant de divorcer. Le parent-solo n’a pas lieu d’être. A moins d’un
problème. Ton problème. Pense à ton image.
Ton image ta voiture ton attitude rebelle au minimum. Une fissure, des travaux,
un enfant handicapé peut être, tes petits somaliens parrainés à nourrir et ton
vel’oh.
On ne crache pas dans la soupe. Même bio.
74
75. AMIT RANJAN
Two stories
Abra Dabra Macabra
Rum tum trumpledum, bacon fat and rumpledum, old saint Mumpledum, pull
his tail and strumpledum.
This was a doggerel he had read in Shaw’s Saint Joan. Every morning he
muttered this little rap to himself, to prepare for the day’s rap n’ roll. Sleep late,
get up late, miss the breakfast, smoke a cigarette, get up on the old scooter, which
matched the mileage of a car. He knew the way blindfolded. Reach Munirka, take
a left, straight, right, Moti Bagh, Shantipath, the swirl of Mother Teresa crescent,
Park Street, Mandir Marg, left and right. Simple. Sixteen kilometers, twenty five
minutes. The last turn has a shamshan ghat next to it. Stench of burning flesh in
the heart of the city, people feeding pigeons nearby, vultures hovering overhead.
They say men and women come back as pigeons. So they feed. And behind the
crematorium is the tower where our friend works on the thirteenth floor. Morbid
neighbourhood. And then rabid rap of the boss. Puck, puck, puck. Trap, trap,
trap. Replace the first Ps with F, and Ts with C whenever these words are used.
They called him Rishikesh, after his flowing mane, and his foul mouth and
temper.
“I wish I also became a pigeon. Then Rishikesh will come to feed me, and I’ll bite
him. Might be some vulture friend would do a little woodpecker act on his head
too,” Vikram thinks.
“Dude, why are you pucking late by pucking fifteen minutes. What trap is this!
Go, do this story on this pucking past life regression guy. He’s written some
pucking book on pucking people having pucking past lives. Puck lunch, and just
75
76. pucking go.”
So the photographer and our friend are on the scooter-cum-car again traveling to
Habitat centre to cover the book launch. A David guy is making a powerpoint
presentation with pictures of celebrities and pictures of who they were in their
past lives. The basic funda was that people retain their bone structures, and their
interests also. And also, a white guy remains white. Only Halle Berry, who must
be in his hall of fame, is given a concession, and she was a white girl in her last
birth. There must be some Indian flavour to the presentation too. But due to lack
of his database, the Indian past life ancestry is also white. The entire Bachchan
family has been transported down, mother, father, wife, in the same hierarchy.
The star attraction, president Kalam, was Tipu Sultan in his last birth. King Khan
was a nautch girl Sadhona Bose in his last tryst!
Tea time. “Sir, can you tell me what I was in my past life?” Vikram asks David.
Dave, the grave hunter, takes him to dark room with red and blue lights.
Hypnotism begins. Abra dabra macabra.
The lights blink. Red, blue, black, flash, flashback, black. Vikram’s eyes roll up.
He goes into a trance. “What would you like to be in your past life?” David asks.
You mean what would I have liked to be in my past life? Or you’re going to tell me
what I was in my past life? Or what I would like to be in my next life?
I am not God to grant you a slot. Learn to look ahead into the past.
Ok then I’ve learnt. I guess I want to be a pigeon, vulture, or toad in my past life.
And a hot shot babe in my next. That’s just an application if you can forward it to
God. Your recommendation might work. And I promise you a one night stand for
the favour.
Don’t forget your promise. But toad is an odd choice…
Haven’t you heard girls say, “How many toads do we have to kiss before we find
the prince?” I’ll offer a kiss. A prince free with every kiss. A TV free with a remote.
“So?” asks David.
Will the dumb princess or princesses realize whether I am the same toad? I ll pop
76
77. up everyday as a new toad. Like new cellphone covers. With shining warts.
“But you don’t want to be the prince cursed as a toad?” David tempts him.
Are you mad? Then I’ll have to live with one princess. And then she’ll be queen.
Bee queen. And what’ll happen to the toad fraternity. Once the prince is found,
who’ll kiss them? And the girls will have to kiss only princes. And the castle and
all that. They’d have clean pool of mineral water and all that. If I want to
reconvert, or take a day off as a toad it’ll be so tough. I am a dirty toad of dried
mud puddle and I wash my face in the Yamuna waters. Besides, do you think any
princess really wants a prince? Dress up everyday, smile the toothpaste smile to
the audience, code of conduct, poets writing poetry about your waist, all that jazz.
And then get kidnapped by some monster in a fort, and wait for the prince to
rescue you. The prince, meanwhile meets a hundred princesses on the way. The
monster gets bored, leaves the ageing princess of his own accord. I think the
princesses are always interested in toads, than princes. Besides, you haven’t
heard of the Ashwamedha yagya, have you? If you are the head princess, you’re
done for.
“That’s an interesting thought, but still a toad is a toad. It is hard to live on the
road. Some prince or the other crushes you, and you lie there till you become the
road”. David can get poetic if he gets emotional.
But sir, you said people retain their bone structure, and even humanity. Then
what’s the point of this exercise?
“Oh, that was just celebrity chat. I can’t show a Kennedy as a cat in last life to
people, right? I have given people two births or berths, whatever you will, in
humanity. Look, it’s like this. Indian tradition says that you have to be reborn 84
lakh times as different species, and then you can be born a human. That’s why I
gave you the choice of what you’d like to be in your last birth. You choose your
pick, I plug you in to that species, whenever you were that. That’s why I say look
ahead into the past,” David pulls up the specs up his nose bridge for effect.
You are a hardcore intellectual. This is like Farce-ist study of human die-eclectics.
Plug me in, into the buffalo birth.
“First toad, then buffalo!” David is baffled, “Aren’t you interested in knowing
what you were as a human. I give two chances to mankind, I told you.
77
78. Well, if I had the same bone structure and same interests, I would have been
some court poet writing heaps of praises for some lascivious lump of a leering
badshah. Like now I write about the Page 3 people, about how hip and happening
they are. Give me the buffalo deal. Haven’t you heard Bhains ke aage been bajane
se kya fayda? Boss, butcher, traffic, credit card collectors, no one would matter.
Buffalo is the most philosophical animal, it does its own thing under all
circumstances.
David is impressed. He thinks, and thinks for long, and then says, “No dude.
Black buffalo is killed, white cow is sacred. Racism. No! No! No!”
I appreciate your concern. But I wonder why in your presentation no black guy
ever came back as white. When Pears had launched it’s soap, the ad showed a
black baby turning white after a bath. A soap can do it, a rebirth can’t?
“Come on,” says David, “our discussion is getting too political. How about adding
some colour? How about plugging you into the peacock mode. Plumes, and
dance, and rain. And if you start losing your plumes, I’ll sell you a plume lotion,
which’ll make it regrow. Just fifty dollars per plume. And then we can make a
“before and after” ad and set up our own venture called David Peacock lotion.
Shut up! No peacock, no Hitchcock. These sound like tabloid puns. Besides, the
entire gender scene will be inverted. Male more beautiful than the female. Men
will be molested, their plumes would be plucked and dipped in ink to write
advertorials, and politicians will have to fight for men’s reservation instead of
women’s. You know politicians chant the same slogan all their life, so it’ll be
tough for them to change their object of crusade. I don’t want to be in their bad
books.
David, meanwhile, is gleaming with a new offer. “Giraffe would be cool. Long
neck, long vision. Spotted skin, a symbol against racism. Cool style too.”
Listen I don’t want to get into trouble with my fashion designer friends. They use
minimum fabric for the rest of the body, but they make very cool scarves. After
all, as a writer says, all dress is fancy dress except our natural skins. They’ll have
to work hard for the scarves of the long neck. These days they are the Page 3
people, I’ll lose my job as a party journalist.
78
79. “Dude, you are absolutely pig-headed. I won’t be able to fit you in anywhere in
the 84 lakh options. Even non-living objects know what they want to be in their
previous life. This rock over there wants to be a star. It was a star that rocketed
down and became a rock. All rock stars have rocketed down. Your municipality
wants to be the huge pig of Troy. It belches out demolishers, and has such a huge
tummy that no amount of bribe fills it in,” David says with exasperation. “You
know what dude, I can even transmogrify. That is really send you into a past life
in this time and space. Abra dabra macabra. Go, become a toad!”
Vikram becomes a toad instead of a pigeon, even before he is given a
transmogrification form, even without an attestation by a gazetted officer. And
now he could be trampled under Rishikesh’s car.
The photographer shoots the Page 3 types outside, waits for several hours, peeks
in. No Vikram. Only the past life writer. He rushes to the office and tells
Rishikesh.
Rishikesh jumps off his seat, “The pucking reporter went away without filing the
story. I will pucking sack him. But this is an amazing story. Tomorrow’s
headline…CIA CANNIBAL CANS INDIAN REPORTER. We’ll do a sting
operation. Prepare. Attack….Wait Wait Wait. You moron, you can’t pucking take
this big pucking camera for a sting. Go buy a pen cam from Palika.”
Rishikesh is no ordinary editor. He has been a spirited “spirit” reporter in his
young days. He has packed off the photographer to the market to check out the
scene himself. He reaches the scene where David is jumping up and down at
really having achieved the conversion act. “What do you want to become, O man
with the mane?”
“What the puck? What trap? Puck Puck puck. Trap, trap, trap. Puck, Puck…I will
pucking roast you in a pucking roaster,” shouts Rishikesh.
David doesn’t want this conversation to be too long, “Oh you want to be a rooster.
So be it. Abra dabra macabra, go become a pucking rooster”
Rishikesh regresses to a rooster, and chickens away.
David thinks for long, waits for someone to turn up. No one comes. He thinks for
long again, considers his options, and converts himself to a buffalo. He walks
down the street, waiting for philosophy to dawn, as Vikram had promised, but the
damned thing doesn’t dawn. So he starts talking to himself about what to chant to
shift to another life. People on the street are astounded. News reporters come
79
80. with huge mikes and ask, “Aapko kaisa lag raha hai?” The municipality comes
and takes the buffalo. He is put in a cage. Lights, camera, action. David Buffalo
talks for a few days about past life theories, psychology, geography and all that.
This has become a picnic spot now. The sun stares into his eyes, he is not given
food on time. Children throw stones if he does not speak. He stops speaking
altogether, and goes into a yogic calmness.
Meanwhile, photographer comes and sees nothing but the blue and red lights. He
calls the police, who take possession of the bulbs are primary evidence. After a
detailed enquiry of over a thousand pages and hundred years, they come to the
conclusion that there was a “foreign hand” in the kidnapping, and that the
magician converted the Indian to red bulb, and himself to blue bulb, after the
police had surrounded him from all sides.
Our protagonist, now a toad, roams around many countries, escaping being
trampled, hunting for a princess to kiss him. Finally, a princess who has read
many Spells and Swoons novels, has decided to try kissing a frog and see what
happens. She finds our friend, and is surprised to see that he doesn’t want to
escape. She kisses him, and contrary to his expectations, he turns a prince.
Reporter Frog Prince. Under Rishikesh too he was a frog prince, jumping around
the city to find news. They decide to celebrate. Kewl Kola company has a festival
offer, buy one bottle, get one free. What better than Kewl Kola to celebrate, they
think. But though he is a prince, his brain, always slow, is still in the frog mode.
He drinks, thinks, and dies. Kewl Kola, they say has pesticides. But this festive
season, they decided to upgrade and add toadicides to make human beings more
resilient than cockroaches in case the nuclear war happens. Service for humanity.
So our friend regresses back to his toad life, his human body vanishes. He calls
out to the princess. She is baffled at the vanishing of the prince, and walks away.
Ever since then, roosters have been saying Puck Puck Puck
Ever since then, buffalo has become meditative, unperturbed, and silent. And
goes into the water, and doesn’t come out. As they say, Gaya bhains paani mein.
Ever since then, this city’s police have put the red and blue bulb atop their
vehicles, and threaten to send whoever comes in their way, to their past lives.
Ever since then, toads have been making that sound of theirs, calling the
princess.
This is an ancient story, recently ratified by the Archeological Purvey, but not yet
80
81. in public sphere, because animal rights activist have taken strong objections to
the stoning of the buffalo in the story.
81
83. ONCE UPON A RHYME
Once upon a rhyme…err…time, there was a renowned educational haven called
the Shaw Claw Pore University. One morning was particularly bright, and there
was a major commotion in the Zaveri hostel. It was almost festive, with hostel
staff carrying trays of sweets and tea inside the hostel, and coming out frantically
to fetch another tray. People whispered to each other, and walked in and out,
pensive if noticed, gloating if not.
I was from Kutlej hostel and thought it was not of my business, but eventually I
let curiosity kill the cat.
It had so happened that a thief was caught in the wee hours of the morning,
trying to steal a bucket from someone’s room. Being responsible citizens, the
owners of the bucket ( it was a joint venture of two roommates) decided to hand
the thief over to the police. The poor man had offered to pay twice the amount of
the property but the responsible citizens said that it was not a matter of property,
but that of propriety. They were proceeding on their business, when they were
intercepted by more responsible citizens, who said it was not a personal matter,
but a matter of public interest, and therefore they could not singularly decide the
fate of the erring man. It was thereupon decided that a UGBM
(Universal General Body Meeting) would be called to deliberate and decide on the
issue.
The news was spread amongst the hostel inmates and the wardens. Those present
in the hotel were, generally, research students, since most undergrads and
postgrads had left for the classes. These gentlemen did not have classes, as their
work was research. This news was particularly welcome to them, as this was one
golden opportunity to prove that they were not just apt critics, but executives as
well. They put on their best attires, which were generally not of much use, jazzy
perfumes and all, and came down to the mess where the UGBM was scheduled.
The wardens came, there were four- it was a rare sight, they were generally seen
once a year when they would do an FBI raid at two in the morning to check out if
there were illegal guests residing in the rooms. The PIGs ( Permanent Illegal
83
84. Guests)never minded the deal, it was cool idea to pay a meager and cool thousand
bucks for a whole year. It was a different matter that the PIGs were more visible
than the actual residents; and it was a common sight to see a real resident being
questioned about his identity by the hostel president, who, the rumour says, was
himself a PIG.
Anyways, the wardens decided that the matter was too grave to be decided by
them alone, and therefore the Vice Chancellor, Rector and the top officials need
must be called. The hostel phone was not working, and therefore a warden used
his mobile to spread the word and immediately made a bill voucher of a thousand
bucks. It was with great difficulty that the warden was convinced not to call the
Chancellor, who generally happens to be the Prime Minister of the country. It was
not, however, due to the reason that the person in question was the Prime
Minister of the country, but that a few days back the President of the country,
who had come on a visit, had been denied a bouquet by the University President
for he having been a scientist who had aided a nuclear test in some very round
about way.
Anyways, some more vouchers were made for tea, refreshments etc., and the
voucher book was almost full till the committee gathered around 11:30 am. I have
totally forgotten our dear protagonist, the thief, by this time; the guy was locked
at 8 am, inside a room adjacent to the mess, so that he could hear the
proceedings as well. The proceedings began with Professor Shukla, the VC,
greeting everyone, “Good aftermoon friends!”. Someone retorted from the crowd,
“Sir, it is yet another half an hour to go for it to be afternoon!”
“My dear young man, please get your ears checked. I said After Moon and not
After Noon. M for Moon. Aftermoon for propriety.”
The junta was zapped, but not quite, for Prof. Shukla had been a wannabe poet
and metaphorist for years.
“And good after-June to you all too”, Dr.Shukla added. (It was early July!)
Now you know why I said “Once upon a rhyme…”
The deliberations began; the first question was who decides who is a thief; is it
the police, is it the hostellers, the wardens, the society, who? An answer could not
84
85. be reached at till two o’ clock; Derrida, Foucault and other eminent philosophers
were quoted from fat books; the VC staged a walkout, returned after some
cajoling, and said, “Good after-soon to you all. Let us agree that the man is a thief
and move on to the other questions.”
Among other questions was, “What makes a thief?”. Is it genetic, is it psychotic,
or is it born out of social stratification and disparity. The psychology teacher
Mrs.Ramani gave a long lecture on kleptomaniacs and urged that the man be sent
to a counselor. She also urged that thieves are a threat to our fragile ecosystem,
until she was interrupted by Dr.Shukla, “Good after-coccoon, Mrs.Ramani!”
Mrs.Ramani was quite baffled and demanded an explanation. The VC asked her if
she was fond of silk sarees; and she answered saying that she wore only silk
sarees. It was a moment of triumph for the poet who cried, “Mrs.Ramani, your
silk comes by boiling and killing silk cocoons. Are you not a threat to the
ecosystem, are you not a thief? Therefore, good after-coccoon!”
The research scholars made notes furiously, and one of them spoke at length
about how the word “thief” itself was a construct to legitimize the oppression of a
few. Another chap from linguistics department contested this and went into the
Latin and Greek etymologies of the word. A teacher from the classical studies
department said the word “chor” was a positive one, and that Krishna himself
was a thief, not to forget Prometheus who stole fire; and Robin Hood too. She
added that Luv and Kush were the root words for love and cash, the two primary
driving forces in life, which can lead anyone to steal, and therefore the man’s
action was justified.
The final question to be discussed was the role of the thief in society. This was, of
course, after many other questions and lunch break, and a greeting by the VC,
“Good after-spoon”, referring to the lunch spoon. A criminology student was
called upon, who said that a thief is a key link in the social chain, something akin
to food chain, where the survival of the police is possible only due to thieves; and
that our morals are good because the theives’ morals are bad. On a second
thought, he apologized severely for using “good” and “bad” which are loose terms.
85
86. The VC tried to put the issue to some sort of vote but everyone wanted to speak,
and the gathering kept on swelling. It was around six when a loud wail was heard
that drowned all the commotion. Everyone was stunned. It was the thief.
He shouted from inside, and from hunger, “Please please please have mercy.
Mercy! Mercy! Unlock me.”
He was unlocked to have a fair trial where the accused should also have a voice.
“Please! I am tired. Please hand me over to the Kasant Kihar police station. The
third degree there is much less severe.”
He prevailed, and despite the unwillingness and protest of most, he managed to
reach the station, where he lighted a cigarette and said, “Good after-buffoons!”
It was later found out that the bucket did not belong to the supposed owners, and
that it contained polyvinyl acetate bromide chloride, which is not good for health,
and therefore was an abandoned one that the two had picked up!
86
101. MATT ROHRER
Four poems
ACROSS THE COUNTRY HURRY HOME
Quickly all the little girls
across the country
hurry home in the same
winter coats
a wind winds around
the loud distracted blocks
Friday afternoon lightless
be clear, be clear
a young mother thinks
distracted on Earth
looking always at the clouds
the tin clank
of the outside thermometer
blowing against
the window
is its own forecast
101
102. BAD WEATHER PLAN #4
Taped outside the metropolitan
transit authority office
“bad weather plan #4”
and standing beside it
a woman. Everyone who
passes she hands them
a piece of paper.
It’s for you
she says.
In all the years
no one has ever
accepted it. Waiting for her bus
a mousy girl complains
about her professor
to someone who is
entirely fictive.
102
103. NEW LAWS
In the old man’s
apartment they found
photographs of his cat
but no cat.
From the bottom
of his cell his
stomach cried out
with hunger.
The terrible thing
about these new laws
is they’re just like
the old laws.
103
104. BUS PASS
She found a bus pass
on her front steps
with $20 on it
and though she basically
knew it belonged to S.
She just got on the bus.
But wine loosened her
tongue. She cried,
and then she wiped
her eyes and said no,
I won’t cry. And indeed
there was no reason.
S. is rich. A fine
sprinkle of ice
fell all across the city.
104
105. MIGUEL D'AJUDA PINTO
Grande campagne
dix pièces
à l’aube
à l’aube j’ai
remarqué sur le
sol remarqué
un zénith rasant
remarqué l’absence
d’ombre au sol
au même instant
n’ai pas remarqué
sur les nuages pas
remarqué une
ombre dansant au
dessus des nuages
pas remarqué qu’elle
menaçait déjà
viens donc
viens donc juste so
leil dévoiler ces
faces rageuses du peup
le minuscule qui
105
106. s’agite laisse les donc
démantibuler la mémoire et festiner
des lambeaux vois donc
comme ils ont musclé
leurs langues pour en
ticher les oreilles
de cet abîme tou
jours aux exhalaisons de stupre jaillit leur
vanité morbide
sache donc que l’heure des
cabots est venue
la gamelle brillan
te et pleine en fait des
créatures dociles chiens galeux singes savants ser
pents qui sifflent loups
gris tel est le dé
tail de l’anima
lerie ambulan
te j’entends ici
et là dire cirque mais je ne peux l’approu
ver connais tu un
cirque rien qu’un cir
que qui effraie les
gamins et les fi
che au rancart non rends
leur service sombre soleil n’oublie pas qu’ils te
mouchent tant que tu
n’as pas la morve au
nez ils sont comme ça
sots lumineux aux
ombres de violen
ce éculée qu’ils ne peuvent pas circonscri
re et à l’heure du grand
midi fais leur des
106
107. geôles ou cachots des
éclipses je t’en
prie qu’ils se noient de
dans les veaux d’or on en a trop et trop salués
107
108. paluches
I
leurs grosses paluches
d’enfants trop vieux
les lèvent haut et
fort pour se signaler
à l’évidence et qu’on
les remarque bien
II
ont des pieds pour
seules voix émaillés
de verrues des cors des
ampoules à force de
jouer à se grimper
dessus c’est à celui
qui piétinera l’autre
le dernier
III
pour la bagarre sont
si veules que possèdent
des partisans chair à sinon
charriés dans des bétaillères
jetés ici ou là qui
savent les formules
sur le bout des doigts
(mais les ignorent par cœur)
partisans qui leur ont
108
109. fait offrande de bouts
de peau ceux-là les couards
les grosses paluches les
pieds cornus se sont empressés
de les leur rendre
(et généreux y ont taillé des œillères)
109
110. de l’estrade
de l’estrade la bêtise siège
applaudissement
au sommet en personne
plauplaudissement
la parole en crue
plauplau
à tout rompre interpelle
dit cache-toi sors de là
(j’affecte de ne pas entendre mais depuis qu’elle m’a désigné j’ai
comme disparu ; en suis n’en suis plus)
délem’ tim’ baratzim’ viou poque anoubara
les réflexions sonores
ont pris le pas débordement paisible
mêmes brouhaha plauplau etc
célem’ célem’ ohkramanikratamani
en bas la parole en crue se jette dans
gonfle dès l’embouchure l’océan de crue
les digues détournées paisibles etc les
vagues ricanent (ce n’est pas de moi ; je m’y soutiens comme un
seul homme)
nageurs happés marins mal en point des trous
porosités du jeu dans les mécanismes (tu vois où je veux en venir :
en bas on ne cause pas c’est un peu le désert)
radamentasiloucotchipérem’ pérem’
110
111. la voix
la voix
étique
s’élève
gronde
sans fo
rce ton
ne sans
force
ça bat u
n peu ça
bat ça ba
t un tout
petit peu
le coeur
un tout p
etit peu a
u bout de
la langue
111
112. la ronde
la ronde infantile de
corbeaux dans le ciel
une haie reflet bleu
acier les plumes à
l’extrême ou doigts d’une
main tendue définissent
les barreaux quelques
tentatives déjà de
trouver le juste écart
une musique à l’étrange
régularité ou croassement
signale le danger périodique
et accompagne une descente
ou une fonte imperceptible
la menace se tient derrière
les barreaux qui la masquent
une fiente tombe une plume
peut-être à contre-jour
elle provient d’où elle
veut au sol des rats s’en
emparent l’exposent et
défilent les ombres se
desserrent se font plus
imposantes surgit alors
un chœur d’insectes qui
déclame les pies tout
là-haut mais les rats
se fâchent et dévorent
la fin de leur tirade
112
