Or as Ingelil soliloquizes in The Merry Stones, “Use the deigning colors of your cabinet for your windows; only don’t, when the winter comes, complain of the cannon-fare of the horses; for as surely as hay is tucked into the orphan straw, time will have guess his last lust in the ephemeral killing bottle. I am a laziness that comes from a nuttier country; I see to not understand your flailing indecrepitude. May the blue star of yesterday pink its liberal summit to that head, this yours, which, like a revolvement, fats the walls with lowing circumvention. Oh, good-by, normal!” Security is not in having things; it’s in handling things. I mean, a neighbor of mature years was seen to settle into a backyard Adirondack chair with reading glasses, two volumes of the Encyclopedia of Philosophy, and a small, well-used bong. Try: twenty thousand years, try every morning before dawn. An evolution parallel along this axis: we should probably work today, we are not bromeliads that drink from the air, but what do you think, like what’s the deal? My tongue rolls a mouthful of chrome pellets, a dusty beam of light from a fainter sun. I am countless forms, I guess, possible outcomes, a box of varying screw sizes, in the larch wood he ran into a tramp. His first thought had been that it might be the escaped showman, but the tramp was nothing to do with that. Not at all. The painter had been startled, because he had failed to see the tramp, and tripped over him. “Like a corpse lying in the middle of the road,” says the painter. A hypothermia victim, he had thought, and taken a step back. From the man’s clothes, he could tell he wasn’t from here. Where is he from? “Striped pants, you know, the sort that circus people wear, particularly circus directors.” Assuming the man was dead, he had tried to flip him over with his stick so that he could see his face, “because the fellow was lying facedown. It’s natural to want to see someone’s face,” said the painter. But no sooner had he applied the stick to the “dead man,” than he had emitted a scream and leaped to his feet. “Oh,” the tramp is said to have said, “I was just playing dead, I wanted to see what happened when someone comes across somebody else, lying flat on his front like a dead man, in the road, in the middle of the forest and the middle of winter.” For most people, the reaction to those five statements is to put their hands over their ears, shut their eyes and sing ‘la-la-la’. But “Hugs can go wrong. Don’t think they can’t. Be careful.” “For the ceiling of the house is an obstacle and therefore we pray on the house-top.” We are the rich man’s tragic camel. Volposited on the crest of a murelium, they felt themselves being balparammed, perlined and marulous.
[Note: Sources: JBR, but see next; Kenneth Koch, The Merry Stones, in The Banquet: The Complete Plays, Films, and Librettos (eds. Karen Koch, Ron Padgett and Jordan Davis); fortune cookie fortunes rec’d at dinner’s end at QQ Asian Bistro, New Windsor NY, with K, Deborah Poe and Karl Bode, 11 Oct 013; Robert Archambeau, FB post, 11 Oct 013; Alicia Puglionesi, “MAURICE MAETERLINCK’S HISTORY OF MEN AND HORSES”, in KRALL KRALL, at Cars Are Real; Lesser Gonzalez Alvarez, “Alkaline”, in MORBID BELLY ACHING, at Cars Are Real; Thomas Bernhard, Frost, at Biblioklept; Jason Heppenstall, “Welcome to Realandia”, at 22 Billion Energy Slaves, 8 Oct 011; Christopher Smart, Jubilate Agno, and R. M. O’Brien, “WE”, quoted in O’Brien’s WE, at Cars Are Real; Julio Cortazar, Hopscotch (tr. Gregory Rabassa)]