Flee streetward
and trip
in splintered wood and gravel
shriek
a bloodied shriek
slipping
elbow deep
in coffee-colored pits
of muddy rainwater
gazing out
across
encroachment
dead grass
the post office
and diner
sidewalk
brick lined walks
banks and cafes
bakeries
liquor stores
the tailor’s
and watchmaker's
all dark by 9
skirt the edges
of bright haloes
pooled on the ground
while wearing
the haunted
dazed
expression
of the fool
trapped
behind
iron wrought or dull chain
dividers
black pitched roofs
send smoke
as far as the eye goes
concrete bloom
and bust
unease
creeps the
deserted gray plains
though no one notices and
all of them
keep
drifting through the
dripping fog
repeating:
“I want to be free
release me”
the curious:
dissatisfied
may sit down at first light
exhausted
and grieve for time
slipped through the cracks
until finally bombarded
by ceaseless pangs
they run
beneath the house
‘neath the porch
out into
the cape
or bay
or neck
hurling book
and hex
wild-eyed
under glass no more
shadows loosed
to run shudders
throughout
this world
and maybe the next
sinister
in the thick
soup of
latest night
though finally
they sink
to the earth
incapable of
assailing
their burden
to only weep
weak
lost
defeated
raise their eyes heavenward
and written in mockingly large letters
across the sky:
BIRCHING PLAINTS GNAW FRESH SPIRIT HERE
heaving
in earnest
rapt by spiteful fits
we chase the beast
across
an endless string
of annular days
to clutch but
chaff of
spent moments
everything
seeming
bent and wetted
for blitzkrieg
If there is no
distant
other
better
place
buried deep somewhere
within this flickering realm
is there
any chance for
those who
idly long to
one day shed
these bacterial sleeves
and
find some small measure of relief?
may we all
be left to stare
at the wall
with no greater wish
than to self-destruct?
or be compelled
to watch
life
be casually unsheathed
by
the oblivious
the healthy
and well-scrubbed?
is our singular consolation
knowing
they will all die away
someday
seething in their mother’s milk
screaming?
for now
I am content to
set a foot on the
ground
to tap or swing
and drink
read
think
until I fall asleep
in my favorite chair
and dream up
some sort of other terrible peace
W. Davis Traven was born at
66° 0′ 0″ N, 34° 37′ 0″ E and spent much of his early childhood there. In his
teens he began publishing the slapstick-nihilist periodical Ø, which is still
published diurnally in Paraguay. Currently he is head of surgery and poet
laureate for the seizure ward at Yuasa-Exide General. Traven has just released
his second memoir, Donde Son Las Dos Cucarachas from which this excerpt is
reprinted without permission.
