was called Graeme Bezanson. I used to walk
his dog Piggy Bank, they lived in my building. His gift
for numismatics was an incredible near-sightedness: when
he held up a coin to examine it became the only thing in
the world. It was, of course, both his blessing and
undoing: one morning, while counting the ridges around
the perimeter of a dime, he wandered obliviously into a
busy intersection. He was struck by a speeding mini-van
full of martial artists; they kept him alive by
fashioning tourniquets out of their black-belts. When
he woke in the hospital days later he found his peculiar
vision had changed. Now when he held up a coin the rest
of the world would not melt away; he'd become
distracted by the slightest movement on the other side
of the room, or by a glint of light that he couldn't
help but see. His work suffered, and it soon became
clear that his career in coins was through. Eventually,
his debts mounting, he took a job as the night watchman
at an aquarium. It was quiet work, so quiet that some
mornings he would come home and shake Piggy Bank, just
to hear some noise.
Since its inception in the 1960s the jellyfish's sting
has become an increasingly effective deterrent—
witness the decline of the surf movie, the disappearing
beach. O spare men of the fishery
who gave up their weightlessness. O great forgettors,
where are our homes? In the distance a woman
sits with her back to the Tiffany ocean.
There is no way to help her, there is no
cure for such misorientation; still I'll go turning
endlessly about myself like a winding spool.
Ambiguity is good for children but bad for soldiers.
It's unclear about boy scouts. I'm going on a camping
trip
and bringing green bananas. I'm going on a camping trip
and bringing Grand Bahama. I'm going on a camping trip
and bringing Georg Buchner. I miss you. Put your hands
up
in the atmosphere if you know what I'm talking about.
In Brooklyn the Gowanus worms unpublished
through the noiseless city. Every morning there's
the biggest fire. No longer will I cast my initials
into the wind behind me. No longer will I
stand for anything. So I laid myself down by the
banks of the contorted river, which seemed to swell
as it sank to the horizon, which was set there like a
digital clock, like the hardest bone to break.
Meteorites are faithless meteors, who trusted in
schemes,
who laid themselves down under a sky
full of dark matter, asterisks, omissions.
Coinships arriving and leaving. Compassing
engines. Come to me like sand to the
Coney Island aquarium. I want you to eat
poached salmon and live forever. I want you to
wear my love like a tinfoil hat.
|
