 |
 |
Both beautifully unfolding, grave without heaviness, poised teller, sequence of incident engaging, closure pleasing. Max Quoting Frederick Pollack <[log in to unmask]>: > Brazen Head > > > The later Emperors, when they rode > in triumph through Rome, never turned > their heads, or waved to the crowd, > or smiled or spoke to anyone, > but stared straight ahead, > as still as crumbling streets allowed. > Wouldn’t respond if a fly > dared to land; and wore, > not the toga of old, but thick, hieratic > robes held together by gold > and dirt. For Christianity despised > the body, and the last Caesars stank, > though differently, as much as those who cheered. > > Of course there were few triumphs then. > Emperors seldom appeared, > which made them seem more mystic. But > perhaps, in the crowd, a veteran > recalled more human, mobile faces, > however brutal; and what > his old scars expressed > was this: *I’ll starve when the dole stops, > die when the Goths win through; > till then I see through you.* – > Though it may be anachronistic > to place a modern feeling there, or think > that, watching, we would not have been impressed. > > > > > > Air Kiss > > > Richard told me this story. > His mother had chosen > his stepfather over him. He left home, > lived and worked where he could. > Someone gave him a scholarship > to a Lutheran college. Its ambience differed > from the Orthodoxy > of his steel-town childhood – the mild older priest > praying before an icon-screen; the terrifying > younger one appearing, never expected; > the crawling (he could never make this clear) > through a tunnel > to kiss a glass coffin – and yet there was something, > he said, that hadn’t changed. > He graduated – in English, > like everyone in those days – but with a > wordy belief in “service”; > the one or two friends he had made were similarly earnest. > The Peace Corps sent him to a desert. > For two years he distributed > pills from a shed, lived in back. > A doctor was there > between conferences; Richard > could only supply prescription-holders. > At first peasants came > to beg or threaten in their language, > but the threats > came to nothing. Local imams were hostile > but frightened of the Shah. > For the most part people stayed away. > From his shed, Richard saw > rock becoming sand, and sand, > he thought, becoming stone. The sky was not blue > but white. The few bushes > smelled like the goats that ate them. > In the distance, black objects > scuttled – women; and at night, > across the waste, he could hear screaming. > It reminded him of the songs > he had listened to at first. Doggedly > he pursued the language, got as far as some poems; > they were all about love, and every one, > he said, was a lie. Landing in > New York, he took a bus to San Francisco > where he had, somehow, a contact. It was spring of ’68. > He met his acquaintance > in one place, got a key to another > that was up three dark flights. > At a table, under a hanging lamp, > sat a girl. She wasn’t surprised > by Richard – he had, after all, the key – > but he tried to explain himself > anyway. As well as he could, > exhausted by the strangeness > of the city, its nighttime urgency, > the bus, the plane, Iran, and with a feeling > of deeply ingrained grime. She listened > or not, not looking at him. She was beautiful. > Was brushing her hair, > richly highlighted by the lamp. Richard > sat in the dark > at the far end of the table. Waited > for her to offer him some food, a coke, > a joint, to take his virginity, > or perhaps for himself, impossibly, > to ask. The story ends in this shade. > ------------------------------------------------------------ This email was sent from Netspace Webmail: http://www.netspace.net.au