He sees a wormy democracy spilling from the graveyards, its fists flailing at the target.
There is hope, there is still hope, there is always hope.
The dead man and his fellow dead are the buried treasure which will ransom the future.
You have only to believe in the past.
The Book of the Dead Man (#15)
1. About the Dead Man and Rigor Mortis
The dead man thinks his resolve has stiffened when the ground dries.
Feeling the upward flow of moisture, the dead man thinks his resolve has stiffened.
The dead man’s will, will be done.
The dead man’s backbone stretches from rung to rung, from here to tomorrow, from a fabricated twinge to virtual agony.
The dead man’s disks along his spine are like stepping stones across a lake, the doctor told him “jelly doughnuts” when they ruptured, this is better.
The dead man’s hernial groin is like a canvas bridge across a chasm, the doctor said “balloon” when they operated, this is better.
The dead man’s toes are like sanded free forms and his heels are as smooth as the backs of new shoes, the doctor said “corns” when they ached, this is better.
The dead man’s eyes are like tiny globes in water, continental geographies in microcosm, all the canyons are visible, now washed of random hairs that rooted, now free of the strangulated optics of retinal sense, this is better.
All the dead man’s organs, his skin, muscles, tendons, arteries, veins, valves, networks, relays—the whole shebang hums like a quickly deserted hardware store.
To the dead man, a head of cabbage is a forerunner of nutrients.
The dead man’s garden foreshadows the day it is to be plowed under, agriculture being one of the ancient Roman methods for burying the Classics, the other was war.
No one can argue with the dead man, he brooks no interference between the lightning and ground, his determination is legendary.
2. More About the Dead Man and Rigor Mortis
You think it’s funny, the dead man being stiff?
You think it’s an anatomically correct sexual joke?
You think it’s easy, being petrified?
You think it’s just one of those things, being turned to stone?
Who do you think turns the dead man to stone anyway?
Who do you think got the idea first?
You think it’s got a future, this being dead?
You think it’s in the cards, you think the thunder spoke?
You think he thought he was dead, or thought he fancied he was dead, or imagined he could think himself dead, or really knew he was dead?
You think he knew he knew?
You think it was predetermined?
You think when he stepped out of character he was different?
What the hell, what do you think?
You think it’s funny, the way the dead man is like lightning, going straight into the ground?
You think it’s hilarious, comedy upstanding, crackers to make sense of?
The Book of the Dead Man (#16)
1. The Dead Man’s Debt to Harry Houdini
The dead man thinks himself invisible because of Harry Houdini.
Because of Harry Houdini, the dead man thinks himself invisible.
He thinks himself invisible because, who is to say he is not?
Because of Houdini, the dead man allowed himself to be placed in a box and the box nailed shut.
Because of Houdini, the dead man lay down after waving valiantly to the crowd.
Because of Houdini, because of Harry Houdini, the dead man holds his breath.
The dead man is like the apocryphal yogi, inhaling but once, exhaling at the door to eternity.
The dead man can whittle a bone into a key, he can braid rope from hair, he can pry open a crate with his still-increasing fingernails.
The dead man listens for a word agreed to by Mr. and Mrs. Houdini, never divulged, to be used to communicate from the beyond, a word that can slither upward, a word as damp and airy as the center of a soap bubble.
The dead man mistakes grace for worth, escape for thought, the past for the future, the sunken underworld for a raised stage, nonetheless the dead man will out.
The dead man thinks Houdini is a real Einstein.
2. More About the Dead Man’s Debt to Harry Houdini
The dead man challenges the living to escape from his cuffs.
He accepts any challenge, any imprisonment, any confinement or stricture, any illness, any condition, and each time he lingers in the vise or jaws or jacket or cell before he chooses to appear again, always the picture of unrestricted beauty.
The dead man hides tools under a paste the color of his skin, his teeth are removable tools, he has seen the plans sketched in the dirt.
The dead man, like Houdini, is a locksmith by trade, a prisoner by vocation, an escapee by design.
The dead man has as many layers as an onion, as many tricks as there are trades, as many seeds as a melon, as many weathers as there are winds.
The dead man is dying to get out of tight situations using the technique of atomization.
The dead man may agree to lie in a frozen nest, to cling to a seashell rinsed of life, or to hang in the ether, but then the dreams come and he goes flying.
Like Houdini, the dead man has no intentions, only circumstances.
The dead man thinks Houdini the Einstein of escape artists, what with his youthful brilliance and his redefinition of the universe into here and hidden.
The dead man’s broken wings deny gravity.
The Book of the Dead Man (#17)
1. About the Dead Man and Dreams
“Enough,” says the dead man, grinding his teeth, checking his bite.
“Enough,”
