In the House of the Hangman 1292

The sun is sinking behind Monet’s grave. Comrades! I need all the friends I can gather. Then there was the Mark of Zorro and the fear of Ohio park greenery in July, twisted over streetcar tracks. It’s November, 5:30 in the morning, and aluminum pushed my eyes out, I’m letting a red hot tube slightly burn my leg. It’s all right, mama, I’m in love, painting 1,000 swear words. Outside the country I love [no such place], “Bless the easy way it all came off.” Instead of forgetting for a few lousy minutes, I pull up the shade, I let it down. Oh prairie reptile, oh North American lemon – “The rhinoceros is related to the armadillo, just like the Dalmatian coach dog and the leopard.” Cool down the reduction machine. Fat Jack puts his belly against my gun. Today I made the most beautiful painting I ever painted. It will be better when I finish the millionth dot. I’m going to knock off a sky just like butter. The Little Dipper glowed off and on. Natasha, are you missing me madly? Down comes the foolish feeling of running my hands through the idea of keeping two things up in the air, so that just in case I miss, one will drop in my right hand and the other will say, “I love your bad head.” “Telephones and telephone bells have always made me nervous.” “I’ve got bread in my moustache and roses and roses and roses.” “Every culture is the terrible gush of its splendid outward forms.” Oh saffron snows! leaves tumbling, two months! and I never saw that car again, No, I don’t remember the license number either. The world sends us garbage. We send back music. Which makes the LANDFILL HARMONIC an important orchestra. Down comes the foolish feeling of running my hands through the idea of keeping two things up in the air, so that just in case I miss, one will drop in my right hand and the other will say, “I love your bad head.” At one point 40 to 60% of the bird population in the United States was passenger pigeons. And now they are extinct. Passenger Pigeons would migrate in huge flocks from the northern states into the deep south — sometimes bringing down whole tree limbs with the weight of their collective bodies. They needed so many trees. Letters, postcards, billets-doux, telegrams, whole manuscripts, rough drafts, files, photos, a lock of Byron’s hair, the long pipe that Peter Cushing smoked in The Hound of the Baskervilles, Churchill’s cigar butts, engraved cigarette cases, over-elaborate walking sticks, tried and tested amulets. It wasn’t an unusual walking stick that had aroused his capricious buyer’s impulse during the bidding, but a ring that had belonged to Crowley, Aleister Crowley, he explained benevolently, a mediocre writer and a self-declared madman who called himself “The Great Beast” and “the wickedest man in the world,” all his private possessions had 666 engraved on them, the number of the Beast according to the Apocalypse, nowadays rock groups with demonic pretensions play around with the number, but it’s also to be found hidden in many computers, it’s the joker’s number, the living have no idea how old everything is, remarked Dorta, how hard it is to be new, what do young people know about Crowley, the orgiast and Satanist, he’d probably be considered a harmless, naïve conservative these days, a kindly man at heart who transformed his disciple Victor Neuburg into a zebra for making too many mistakes during an invocation of the Devil in the Sahara, so Dorta told me, and rode on his back all the way to Alexandria, where he sold him to a zoo which looked after the incompetent disciple or, rather, zebra for two years, until Crowley finally allowed him to resume his human form, he was a compassionate man at heart. Neuburg later became a publisher.

[Note: Begins with a cento of sorts. Sources: Jim Dine, “From the Diary of a Non-Deflector”, “Mr. Cervantes and Jacqueline P.”, “The Pockets”, “Country Life”, “Traces”, “Westerns for the Infants”, “Smoke”, “R. M.”, “The Tide”, “British Joys”, “Freighter Log”, “Bending Things”, in Non-Deflector: Selected Poems; Al Ackerman, “The White Head: Neoist Performance Piece for John Berndt”, as quoted by John Berndt, and either Al Ackerman or Mark Hossfield (Hossfield can’t remember), in Matthew Simmons, “Blaster Al Ackerman (19xx – 2013)”, at HTMLGIANT, 11 Mar 013; Lisa Robertson, epigraph to Jackqueline Frost, “Studies for a General Eclipse”, at Lana Turner; Frank O’Hara, “Bill’s Body Shop”, as quoted in “National Poetry Month: Excerpt from ‘Poems Retrieved’ by Frank O’Hara”, at Abandon All Despair Ye Who Enter Here, 11 Apr 013; Landfill Harmonic, FB page, and JBR, but see Christopher Jobson, “Landfill Harmonic: An Upcoming Documentary About the ‘Recycled Orchestra’ in Cateura, Paraguay”, at Colossal, 11 Apr 013; Ash Smith, “I never saw the show …”, at opened by customs, 11 Apr 013; Javier Marías, “Spear Blood”, as quoted in John Latta, “Zebra”, at Isola di Rifiuti, 11 Apr 013]

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