in Weimar youths—Faded poets in the silent amphitheatre—His block house went away through this air—Click St. Louis under drifting soot—And I think maybe I was in old clinic—Outside East St. Louis—Really magnificent for two notes a week—Meanwhile I had forgotten “Mother”—Wouldn’t you?—Doc Benway and The Carbonic Kid turning a rumble in Dallas involving this pump goofed on ether and mixed in flicker helmets—
“He is gone through this town and right away tape recorders of his voice behind, John—Something wrong—I can pose a colorless question??”
“Is all right—I just have the silence—Word dust falls three thousand years through an old blue calendar—”
“William, no me hagas caso—People who told me I could move on you copping out—said ‘Good-Bye’ to William and ‘Keep it practical’ and I could hear him hit this town and right away I closed the door when I saw John—Something wrong—Invisible hotel room is all—I just have the knife and he said:
“‘Nova Heat moved in at the seams—Like three thousand years in hot claws at the window’—
“And Meester William in Tétuan and said: ‘I have gimmick is cool and all very technical—These colorless sheets are the air pump and I can see the flesh when it has color—Writing say some message that is coming on all flesh—’
“And I said: ‘William tu es loco—Pulled the reverse switch—No me hagas while you wait’—Kitchen knife in the heart—Feel it—Gone away—Pulled the reverse switch—Place no good—No bueno—He pack caso—William tu hagas yesterday call—These colorless sheets are empty—You can look any place—No good—No bueno—Adios Meester William—”
THE FISH POISON CON
I was traveling with Merit Inc. checking store attendants for larceny with a crew of “shoppers”—There was two middle-aged cunts one owning this Chihuahua which whimpered and yapped in a cocoon of black sweaters and Bob Schafer Crew Leader who was an American Fascist with Roosevelt jokes—It happens in Iowa this number comes over the car radio:: “Old Sow Got Caught In The Fence Last Spring”—And Schafer said “Oh my God, are we ever in Hicksville”—Stopped that night in Pleasantville Iowa and our tires gave out we had no tire rations during the war for such a purpose—And Bob got drunk and showed his badge to the locals in a road house by the river—And I ran into The Sailor under a potted palm in the lobby—We hit the local croakers with “the fish poison con”—“I got these poison fish, Doc, in the tank transported back from South America I’m a Ichthyologist and after being stung by the dreaded Candirú—Like fire through the blood is it not? Doctor, and coming on now”—And The Sailor goes into his White Hot Agony Act chasing the doctor around his office like a blowtorch—He never missed—But he burned down the croakers—So like Bob and me when we “had a catch” as the old cunts call it and arrested some sulky clerk with his hand deep in the company pocket, we take turns playing the tough cop and the con cop—So I walk in on this Pleasantville croaker and tell him I have contracted this Venusian virus and subject to dissolve myself in poison juices and assimilate the passers-by unless I get my medicine and get it regular—So I walk in on this old party smelling like a compost heap and steaming demurely and he snaps at me, “What’s your trouble?”
“The Venusian Gook Rot, doctor.”
“Now see here young man my time is valuable.”
“Doctor, this is a medical emergency.”
Old shit but good—I walked out on the nod—
“All he had was one fix, Sailor.”
“You’re loaded—You assimilated the croaker—Left me sick—”
“Yes. He was old and tough but not too tough for The Caustic Enzymes Of Woo.”
The Sailor was thin and the drugstores was closing so I didn’t want him to get physical and disturb my medications—The next croaker wrote with erogenous acid vats on one side and Nagasaki Ovens on the other—And we nodded out under the rubber trees with the long red carpet under our feet back to 1910—We could buy it in the drugstore tomorrow—Or lay up in the Chink laundry on the black smoke—drifting through stale rooming houses, pool halls and chili—Fell back on sad flesh small and pretentious in a theatrical boarding house the aging ham cradles his tie up and stabs a vein like Cleopatra applying the asp—Click back through the cool grey short-change artists—lush rolling ghosts of drunken sleep—Empty pockets in the worn metal subway dawn—
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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