#319

Having escaped, except in his dreams, many dooms

and it does not seem likely now that his old phantasy,

of having his left leg sawed off

at the knee, without anesthetic, will come off—

he can see & hear, convalescent Henry:

his house has many rooms

whereof from one he’ll cable his doctor if

they are about, after a final game of pingpong,

to take off his left leg

& flame the stump—that goes with the story—

& bandage it, & shriek a cripple Song,

& buy himself a peg:

peg-leg, peg-leg, his golden voice did aria

the better for his change, he could play pingpong

sitting down

& there was one leg no more could happen to—

I thrust a knife into it, it doesn’t hurt,

as they took it away downtown.

Creepy, creepy, and nightmare bizarre. His work nearing completion. The loss of the leg is a manifestation of bodily decay, which we know was driven by addiction, and the decay was coupled also with artistic production, driven by the same addiction. So the leg and the work are fused in the imagery of this recurring nightmare? I also suspect another unstated hope that when the work is finished there will be no more need for the drinking, so the way to convalescence and health will finally be open. Pingpong is play, play is health. The work was crippling, but a cripple isn’t necessarily unhealthy, just not whole. And he has symbolically given much of himself, as it were, to the work. As the leg is taken away, he thrusts a knife into it, and lo and behold, it doesn’t hurt to do such a thing. The leg is severed, the connections is severed, the work is going downtown to get published. It’s not attached to him any longer. No more pain.

Art and Sacrifice

‘How do you know I'm mad?’ said Alice.

‘You must be,’ said the Cat, ‘or you wouldn't have come here.’

Money money greased away

dollarwasted and check-void

mortgagelost now street-bound

below an aesthetic trafficbridge.

A professional cut my hair, and that,

that was something. Ten dollars

plus tip

that trimming, but mother

said I looked like Ish Kabibble.

Follicular DNA draped

a René Lalique brooch

pinned to the bluesnapped cape.

I can map your face to a pine cone

but I can’t map a pine cone back to your face.

Pine scales and resin chaotic

Over your black and olive raiment.

Yours is not isomorphic to a beardvisage
I would portráit.

Exfoliating these verses

lavasoaped, scraped,

oliveoiled and strigiled.

A child has pinched a firefly

painted its lightning over his cheeks.

Alessandro Moreschi

sang a vacant voice, a

ghost aria among the dimlit chandeliers

frockcoat ennui,

swoon-embroidery and blushing bustle-lace.

And she came in straightway with haste unto the king, and asked, saying, I will that thou give me by and by in a charger the head of John the Baptist. And the king was exceeding sorry; yet for his oath’s sake, and for their sakes which sat with him, he would not reject her. And immediately the king sent an executioner, and commanded his head to be brought: and he went and beheaded him in the prison, and brought his head in a charger, and gave it to the damsel: and the damsel gave it to her mother. (Mark 6: 25-28)

Wheelaway my leg, on cart, then publish my leg.

KZ