Monday, May 09, 2005
In the Maw of the Greasy Man
iii.
“You are the Mountain Man, then.”
Olson is so far from his experiment with danger in the North Carolina mountains, it takes him a moment. Twombly the scribbler used to call him that. Twombly off in feeble Lexington.
"Black Mountain. It was nothing. Just another—"
“Dream. Yes.”
Miffed, even if he was about to say the same thing. He slurps bad coffee: a bean about which the English are clueless. She brewed as Van put up. Out of the pumps, spectacular calves. Hungry, he thinks of baguettes.
“Like Marinetti?” A soft lob to the baseline.
“Marinetti was a fuck, Mr. Olson. A most joyous fuck, but nothing more. Slithering wet joyous sheets, but still a fuck. He may have dreamed me his prompt engine, but I am, I assure you, skin and bones.”
My sweet spine doth arch, in autumn falling.
Brown hands place two plates of tacos upon the table between them. She slides him hers.
They are seated on the stage in the cavernous auditorium. Curtains open, all the accoutrements of a one-room apartment: carpets, sofa, three chairs, this table, an unmade bed. Bags of clothes and suitcases spilling.
Unmade.
She watches his eye at rest.
“You are long for a bed, Mr. Olson.”
He does not hear the are.
Van places two more plates of tacos at the edge of the stage, a table set for cats. From the dark reaches, two men walk down the center aisle, stand and eat at the bar. Brown hands place two bowls of coffee plate-side. Neither man regards the other; both disregard the play.
“Crane,” she says. “The one who smells of ocean.”
Olson smells noth—
“But, then, you’ve lost your nose, haven’t you?”
Fed, the two men drift back to the reaches. He hears chairs unfold.
“Have one.” The brown hand holds a cigarette. She lights the match.
I am unmade. Leaves on her naked back. Pre-Raphaelite length. In the maw of the greasy man.
“I knew my limits then,” she says to his translucent skull.
“And now?”
“A most foolish question from one who has stepped back.”
“I tripped and fell.”
“No one stumbles through the crack. You may have fed on self-deceit, Mr. Olson, but this asks for something better.”
“This?”
Most unmade.
“The crack finds you, you do not find it. I did not find this city—it found me. I, for one, was seated upon a rock, beside a mountain lake. Snow was falling. I was newly dead.”
“Hardly new,” he says, glad to find some ground.
She pauses.
“Newly dead. I saw a hand in the snow. Arthur’s hand. Warm, around it the snow was melting. I went into the forest looking for the rest. It was just that: a crack. Here. I stepped through right here.”
They were seated in the alley behind the theater. Wild-limbed wisteria bloomed in an arbor above them. Anarchy of hibiscus, cosmos, avocado, fig, lime. Down the alley, Van, a moon man tending bees.
“The hand is still warm. Five years.”
“A big lagoon of a man. I swam. I swam very deep.”
“You are the Mountain Man, then.”
Olson is so far from his experiment with danger in the North Carolina mountains, it takes him a moment. Twombly the scribbler used to call him that. Twombly off in feeble Lexington.
"Black Mountain. It was nothing. Just another—"
“Dream. Yes.”
Miffed, even if he was about to say the same thing. He slurps bad coffee: a bean about which the English are clueless. She brewed as Van put up. Out of the pumps, spectacular calves. Hungry, he thinks of baguettes.
“Like Marinetti?” A soft lob to the baseline.
“Marinetti was a fuck, Mr. Olson. A most joyous fuck, but nothing more. Slithering wet joyous sheets, but still a fuck. He may have dreamed me his prompt engine, but I am, I assure you, skin and bones.”
My sweet spine doth arch, in autumn falling.
Brown hands place two plates of tacos upon the table between them. She slides him hers.
They are seated on the stage in the cavernous auditorium. Curtains open, all the accoutrements of a one-room apartment: carpets, sofa, three chairs, this table, an unmade bed. Bags of clothes and suitcases spilling.
Unmade.
She watches his eye at rest.
“You are long for a bed, Mr. Olson.”
He does not hear the are.
Van places two more plates of tacos at the edge of the stage, a table set for cats. From the dark reaches, two men walk down the center aisle, stand and eat at the bar. Brown hands place two bowls of coffee plate-side. Neither man regards the other; both disregard the play.
“Crane,” she says. “The one who smells of ocean.”
Olson smells noth—
“But, then, you’ve lost your nose, haven’t you?”
Fed, the two men drift back to the reaches. He hears chairs unfold.
“Have one.” The brown hand holds a cigarette. She lights the match.
I am unmade. Leaves on her naked back. Pre-Raphaelite length. In the maw of the greasy man.
“I knew my limits then,” she says to his translucent skull.
“And now?”
“A most foolish question from one who has stepped back.”
“I tripped and fell.”
“No one stumbles through the crack. You may have fed on self-deceit, Mr. Olson, but this asks for something better.”
“This?”
Most unmade.
“The crack finds you, you do not find it. I did not find this city—it found me. I, for one, was seated upon a rock, beside a mountain lake. Snow was falling. I was newly dead.”
“Hardly new,” he says, glad to find some ground.
She pauses.
“Newly dead. I saw a hand in the snow. Arthur’s hand. Warm, around it the snow was melting. I went into the forest looking for the rest. It was just that: a crack. Here. I stepped through right here.”
They were seated in the alley behind the theater. Wild-limbed wisteria bloomed in an arbor above them. Anarchy of hibiscus, cosmos, avocado, fig, lime. Down the alley, Van, a moon man tending bees.
“The hand is still warm. Five years.”
“A big lagoon of a man. I swam. I swam very deep.”
