A hoot
read it once came back to the first page asked Who the
fucks Dick Schmitts
the name appeared at the top of a
page a friend penned Labor Day 2008 Sep1
I’d been hiking up & up
& ampersands were wickedly
dashedslashed plus signs was beginning to tire
I was reserved, thoughtful, &
not feeling social as I mounted a rise – steep – unable to see over the top
until I pulled myself up onto it
It was flat, grassy, Grecian, a
wide lip as if surrounding the mouth of an extinct volcano, misty, eyrie, the
soil gravelly, deepbrown to black, lampblack, & warm
As I walked the gravel underfoot
broke & became fine, dusty, aware. It ran up my feet & legs in an sincere
embrace, & the more it gathered the heavier it became, every step a labor
It climbed, accumulated on my
thighs & hips . . . & soon its weight & warmth drew me down dropped
me to my belly . . . & the ground softened, occasionally belched . . .
& I found that my exhaustion, lactic acid affecting my legs began evanesce
under this luxurious, heavy warmth . . . & coalescing smooth-beaded gravel massaged
me, kneading my muscles – million exquisite fingertips seeking, finding my
hurt, unease, my exhaustion, invigorated me. I was renewed & whatever quiet
angst I had carried up – the knots loosened, came undone, fell away
I forgot the trouble I harboured
. . . a high tide had risen, washed away the refuse, the choking flotsam when it
retreated
I laid, lounged on this queer earth,
held clots to my face, relished its effervescence on my jaw & brow, the
bridge of my nose, it massaged my eyelids . . . phosphenes formed beautiful
angels, spun wild kaleidoscopic patterns
& I reveled
& I felt up
Standing, I walked forward, intrigued
by the sound of seeping water, walked, nose high, smelling cleanclear water
I found beyond, in a rise, a bank
of earth, a shivering runlet, bubbling, that formed a cutaway & was filled,
edged, with small-leaf green plants & when I brushed them with the backs of
my fingers, they recoiled, tendrils, like mollusc tentacles, & following the
runlet it led to a hooded hollow, a shallow pool deep in its gullet, where water
seeped from its concave walls, dribbled, in other places, abbreviated
waterfalls . . . it smelled organic, invigorating
I got to my knees, crawled, then
onto my belly to enter its maw, there anointed by fresh Elysium water. I splashed,
washed off the busy mask, the coat of anxious powder & as it slowly quit it
formed soft mud like yogurt, then congealed into rounded gravel
When I was clean I reversed
myself, crawled out, took to my feet, & walked out of the hollow into a
queer flickering hue, a fretted, latticed, see-through vapour on which, in
which, a male and female newscaster, seated side-by-side appeared. They
gestured me & the image, the shot, began to drift towards me at the edge of
the hollow. But before they were out of scene I gestured to them, shook my head
no. “No news here,” I said. Wisely they diverted the camera
I went outside the hollow, scaled
it, peered over the edge . . . perched above was a pool, bluemineral water,
over it a stone platform
There was news
Working my way down, right, I saw
another hollow birthing. Inside it was a black man and a black boy – his son?
It occurred to me that if hollows
grew, they might reverse, could diminished themselves . . . become
non-existent? & a claustrophobic
sense & dread filled me & that hollow
holding the man & boy ceased, then began to shrink, the invagination they
were contained in closing up
the hollow I was outside of began
to shiver
I lunged, pitched myself headlong
from it to theirs, plunged my arm inside, yanked the boy from the man’s arms,
hurled him onto the roiling gravel, slick mud
As the lip diminished, falling
with it, the hollow filling with bizzing water, obscuring the man, I plucked
his wrist before he utterly disappeared, yanked, threw myself, all my weight
backwards for all I was worth & dragged the man out. Emerging he clawed at
the hollow & he landed, collapsed, on top of me, his eyes wrestling terror,
“My boy? My boy? I die, my boy be alone.”
“Boy’s safe. We’re fortunate.”
I pushing him off me. I stood. I didnt
want a fusillade of thanks or tears . . .
NEXT.
then I was in an
apartment, a house . . . & the slender green small-leaf plant that ran
along the edge of the quick runlet leading into the hollow were growing in
terra cotta planters, extending thin trailers and spillers
They recognised me
Monday, Labor Day, to
Tuesday, 2 9. 08
1507, Sunday, 1 9.
24
