Thousand: Nine Hundred Seventy-Nine

I would walk all the way around the sun if I could. I would walk deep into the speckled darkness between stars. I would step transdimensionally, one foot alternating with the other until I crossed time in every direction and set foot in every dimension. So let’s see if water will hold us. I like the way, as we look down, we see ourselves looking up. Wave at them! They are so cute! Let us kiss our reflections, you know you want to. I will kiss your reflection, you kiss mine. Your reflection is a good kisser! I could do

Thousand: Nine Hundred Seventy-Eight

out of fuel. Which of us will be the last one burning? The last to burn out? Cinderella, Cinderella, hurry on home. The coachmen are about to turn back into rats, the horses into toads. What is that I smell? Someone left the home fires burning. We can swim for it. Look there, on the jostling surface, I see a footprint. And another. Glistening like oil, calming what the oars and keels stirred up. Nice long toes on that foot, broad heel, purposeful stride. If you can walk on water, where can’t you get to. I like to walk, too.

Thousand: Nine Hundred Seventy-Seven

there yet, at least we’re here. Wherever we are is here. There’s no getting away from that. You made the coffee just the way I like it. Out of leprechauns. Sweetened with the milk of angels. I’ll be up all night. But in a good way. It will give me time to think. The world will be quiet, all distractions hidden away. The ship is late. Perhaps it is adrift. Can we get the news? Turn up the radio. All I hear is crackle, the crackle of the fire. It’s a very old fire. It will burn until it runs

Thousand: Nine Hundred Seventy-Six

food on cruise ships. Big name entertainment. Gambling. Beautiful island beaches to visit or historic churches full of unique local touches, stained glass featuring native motifs, for instance, hand carved friezes displaying local gods reimagined as the conqueror’s gods. I look forward to the fresh unnamed fruit, the spices referred to solely in metaphor, the good news on tongues that are warm and tender and different and homely. Smiles. Slowly getting to know another way of life. No tears. No lost reservations. No seasickness or diarrhea. No strangers. Thanks for getting us coffee while I dreamed. We’re here. If not

Thousand: Nine Hundred Seventy-Five

the paths of riotous footballers, angry drunks, civic protest, and screaming children and among these shall we offer the calming influence of eternally restful words of advice, and we will pass out beads given us by the angels, rare and precious beads of common make. We will kiss cheeks, smooth and rouged, sweaty and bristly. We will pat backs and slap hands. Then, our duties done, we will step onto the down escalator to the dockyards on the river Lethe where we will lounge on benches, waiting for the cruise ship that will take us upriver. I understand there’s great

Thousand: Nine Hundred Seventy-Four

O heavenly chorus. O hellish choir. What is there for us? To what may we aspire? I want to be a real boy! I want to be destroyed. I want to be adored. I want nor less nor more. Have you put on the octopus gloves? How many lovers can you count as loves? Is this a trick question? Is this a lesson? A lesion? Confusions and contusions, we look after them. Let us go now, you and I, like a patient just a bit too etherized upon the table. The angels will grasp our hands and lead us down

Thousand: Nine Hundred Seventy-Three

I called in favors. Where it ended it had to begin. A new religion was crafted out of old mysteries. I don’t think there’s anything in that bag of tricks for me. In the empty head a candle is being situated. The flicker illumines the cavern but only a piece of it, a corner. Your mind fills in the body. The trail is cold because the snow covers it with a white blanket. Muddy pawprints decorate the comforter. We will be nice to each other. We will be kind. I can name that song if only the chorus will sing.

Thousand: Nine Hundred Seventy-Two

It would be perfect. It would be the last thing, the latest thing, the very thing. It would be a crime. It would be just fine. I don’t know what to say. What is going to happen next is bad. The destruction of all pleasantness. Poof! That’s how it will go. Quick like that. Or maybe slow, drawn out over eons. The mayor’s appointment secretary flicks the corner of the transcendental butler’s business card with a hard red fingernail. Death has provided a career opportunity. Once I had an education. It held me in good stead. Then I had connections.

Thousand: Nine Hundred Seventy-One

If you listen closely, you can hear gurgles in the earth, rumbles, the scream of things changing shape, the bark and grunt of one kind becoming another, silence that passeth understanding. If you listen closely, you will hear the turning. I don’t want to hear it. There are too many noises, there are voices. Where are you now? Standing in the need of air? Standing in a shaft of light? Standing in the way of control? Pissing, drinking, running, lying? Tell me. Tell me and I promise. I promise. I swear. Cross my heart. It would be nice to hope.

Thousand: Nine Hundred Seventy

A new perseverance will climb onto the bus, work its way to the back, brushing knees and packages and chickens. There won’t be a seat at the table, for every seat will be piled with papers and the numbers track the decline of moralists. Put yourself in place, the long place empty of cats and beer cans. The pigeon understands art. Moths drink the tears of orphan elephants. It is harder being blind, the lame girl says, touching the corn, the corn’s damp beard. The rain lays into the grain, the weight of it pressing toward the common earth. Shh.

Thousand: Nine Hundred Sixty-Nine

Suffering is part of the process. When you are done you will feel tremendous relief. Death is your friend. Dried seeds. A rope bridge over the gorge. Green meat. The beautiful crystal, the strange beast, the chaise longue, a pyramid of butter. When you awaken, you will be traveling. Rocks and grubs and trees. It was a fanciful glass object. It was a veritable feast of grandeur. It was a pill of salt. Read again the last bit, the part that concerns you more than any other. Don’t be sad. Choose to be hearty. Let the bricks fall in June.

Thousand: Nine Hundred Sixty-Eight

put up your umbrella against meteors, and retrieve the book of instructions. Put the book on the table on its spine. It should fall open to the page you need. What does it say? Go ahead and read the instructions aloud. Many friends and relations are waiting to hear. Don’t be embarrassed. The instructions may not be immediately easy to understand. You may have to think on it. When others tell you what you should do, listen respectfully. Nod. Thank them for their wisdom. But do not do anything they tell you. This itself may be difficult advice to follow.

Thousand: Nine Hundred Sixty-Seven

to the rim of the crater, you will get to the foot of the stairs. But will you get all the way? The ball keeps losing air. Smoke tumbles from the bowl. The blue ribbon needs dusting. The dried flowers survived the house fire and now stink of soot and ash. The lake on the other side of the road only ever existed on the map, drawn there for copyright reasons. Auguries and bobcats. A wedding of vomit and paradise. When you are alone, wearing your glittering mask, and a flash for a moment hides the moon, you have to

Thousand: Nine Hundred Sixty-Six

the whither, the yawn, the long con, the soft porn, the strong heart and the broken. Where will the bean stalk pierce the clouds and which palace will the ant find pregnable? What will you tell your friends? Is there a vote for character in that calabash? I remember you, the wind says, touching each leaf. I remember you, says the last leaf yanked from the branch, but the memory slips under the surface of the stream which is already icing over. Is it far? No. No, it isn’t far. You’ve gone much greater distances. You will get to the

Thousand: Nine Hundred Sixty-Five

The tingling of an art, tuned to a C or to a bow through which water falls, cutting colors from white, villagers standing nearby, one odd one dancing. The four who got cut and felt. Orange houses, the white out, again only in overcoats, dilaudid computed for a full skull. The boy this time in the bath with lace, bubbles confusing black hair. Littler, ever littler and harder to locate. Weather vainly riparian, the shot out of the gun, it was fennel and rocket. If I had to live I would live with candy. A better day scene, chatting about

Thousand: Nine Hundred Sixty-Four

impotence, grace exhaling across whales. Sometimes you are able to touch, to reach out and touch. A shadow draws a line down your face. In a formal kilt, a boutonniere of orchid gratitude. Snowflakes catch in the lashes. An otter’s head rises from the green river, a cascade of silver. Between trucks the flight of the fish. Boy and girl at the end of the dock wait for the fact of the eye, a biographical extension into the lie of the moon. Families are fine for afternoons. Where evening was set aside, light accidentally framed a black ear, a braid.

Thousand: Nine Hundred Sixty-Three

the twist confront amended then, in a bright mews, fendering the small snicker with two loops and a squint. Say you love and with your love conspire. Say you love and dislodge the mud, the reckoning with wit of a piece with a never sampled burden, a light stirring of frank assessment in the wee hours, what a pile of murder weapons in an evidence locker contributes to the human swindle, where the bridge stretches, naked cables and burnished rivets, purchase on a foundation of despair the happy fall. We will not abide, the wharf rat whispered, such signs, such

Thousand: Nine Hundred Sixty-Two

Jesus’ insides. It’s a familiar tune. Are there words? What are words for? No one listens anymore. A tiled tightrope wearing fresh across the nucleus draws sighs from the forest soak. Jesus parts his lips. O yea, lions of laughter and salience, come forth, the north-facing slant of the yardarm conspiring in williwaw, a yellow mirror down in arches, the flail of the old grim parent cupped in tutoring, walnuts. The rampant fast well in hand, the purple sang in all wheedle. Rolling over battered red youth, the white weeds bungle the make. Box after box, mild after smiled, mending

Thousand: Nine Hundred Sixty-One

After the passage has curved away from the light on the angel and the shadows deepen until the only illumination is the faint glow from the path, a glow so insignificant it sometimes seems imaginary, the stone wall the left hand touches, touches lightly here and there, has it softened? It’s not just a change in the hardness, a greater smoothness, but there’s a warmth, a friendly warmth, a cozy, welcoming warmth. The wall’s texture has become silky. Could this be fur? The hand is finding much pleasure sliding along, feeling its way. A humming greater than his own tickles

Thousand: Nine Hundred Sixty

his lips and peers at the page, bringing it closer and closer until it bumps his nose. His mouth begins to form the shapes of words, though silently. Jesus closes the door. The light pouring into the cave is still so bright Jesus can’t really make out the angel’s body, though he can hear sobbing. He turns away. Holding one hand out to the side, his fingers in contact with the wall, Jesus ventures on into the dark. Heaven. It could be worse. Jesus hums to himself as he walks. Wherever the path takes you, that is where you go.

Thousand: Nine Hundred Fifty-Nine

chair beside a round endtable holding a brass lamp with a yellow shade. The lamp stands on a lace doily and casts a warm glow. A merry fire dances in a brick fireplace. On the chair’s seat cushion a blue bound volume has been laid open face down. As Jesus watches, a man in a cardigan sweater hobbles across the room and leans with one hand on an arm of the chair. The other picks up the book which he presses against his chest. Slowly he spins around, and with evident caution lowers himself into the chair. The man smacks

Thousand: Nine Hundred Fifty-Eight

the light that it seems to be deconstructing him, too, the light peeling away in a shell that splits and and shivers and sunders. Jesus takes another step back, turns his face away, his eyes so overwhelmed they see nothing now but a green panel. Wherever he turns the green panel floats before him. No, he’s not blinded, for a little further down the path Jesus sees another door. Green, of course. Like the first this door has no handle. With a firm push, the door’s latch disengages and the door swings open. Within he sees a wine-red leather-upholstered easy

Thousand: Nine Hundred Fifty-Seven

Jesus tries to see what he’s uncovered. Light. That seems to be it. White light fills the doorway. The angel crawls forward on his knees, bowing his head, holding the bundle out as though it were an offering. When he gets to the edge, where the gravel of the path gives way to nothing but light, he leans as far forward as he can and the bundle of dead leprechaun seems almost to disappear into the light, seems almost to bleed away in thin hair-like streams into the light. The angel is sobbing, his gold skin reflecting so much of

Thousand: Nine Hundred Fifty-Six

toward it. A line perpendicular to the ceiling, a line parallel to the first, two more horizontal, one of those above, one low to the floor. As it looks like the outline of a door, Jesus feels for a handle. He finds none. He tries pushing. At first push, nothing moves, but tried at the other side, there’s some give. He pushes until it resists then withdraws his hand. The door swings open, a swath of light falling into the dark cave. Dazzled, Jesus steps back, covering his eyes with his sleeve. “Oh! Oh!” cries the angel. Squinting and blinking

Thousand: Nine Hundred Fifty-Five

from scratch. There were times he bluffed his way back into an old life, once as a long lost son come to claim his rightful inheritance; once as himself having been lynched, now stalking his killers as vengeful ghost (he smiles at the memory); once as himself having learned the secret of eternal youth. It is damned dim in here. When Jesus looks at his feet they are merely black blobs against the path’s fading glow. The angel is panting. “Is this it? Are we here?” Just ahead Jesus detects a faint line of light. A line? He walks softly

Thousand: Nine Hundred Fifty-Four

many lives, he has a pretty good sense of what’s going to happen next. He can get blasé about it, thinking he’s seen it all, nothing can surprise because when was he last surprised? He’s seen people behaving badly and heroically, lovingly and cruelly. He’s learned the ways of most every culture, in a few lives while the other sex. Learning to be a woman was tricky, and the process taught him empathy all over again. That was then. You’ve tried human every which human way. What’s next? Another kind of animal? When Jesus opens resurrected eyes, he’s gotta start

Thousand: Nine Hundred Fifty-Three

his neck. Did it twitch? Did it squirm? The angel’s golden heart beats golder. The corners of his mouth twitch, squirm as though uncertain what to do with a smile. Jesus, meanwhile, rubs his belly which has not yet been filled this lifetime. Is the path getting dimmer? By now, even if stone hasn’t met stone above, they are walking as in a cave, looking up frequently to gauge the height of the ceiling, letting a look linger in shadows where passages or treasures might hide. Jesus likes it when he knows what’s going to happen next. Having lived so

Thousand: Nine Hundred Fifty-Two

fly,” the angel suggests. “If I fly around and reconnoiter we can see where we’re going.” “You don’t know where we’re going?” “I don’t know where we’re going?” the angel stammers, squeezing one hand in the other. “What do you mean?” As they press on the rock on either side of the path continues to rise and lean inward, closing out light from above. If the path itself were not aglow they would be stepping in darkness. “You don’t know where we’re going?” Jesus repeats. “I know where we’re going,” the angel says mechanically. One hand presses the bundle around

Thousand: Nine Hundred Fifty-One

path snaking among hills, then back at the angel. “That leprechaun’s only getting deader.” “No! Please!” cries the angel, falling to his knees. “You lead the way! You are the one! You are the one I must follow.” Jesus crosses his arms over his chest. “You dragged me up to heaven.” Jesus nods at the path. Trembling, the angel gets off his knees, bows humbly to the son, and, constantly looking over his shoulder, begins to walk ahead. Gradually the hills rise up around them until they are so hemmed in, it seems they will soon be underground. “I could

Thousand: Nine Hundred Fifty

Don’t let that worry you. God wouldn’t be in heaven otherwise. You ever heard of anybody living allowed into heaven? Deposited on the spongy floor of the divine destination Jesus yanks his hair out of the angel’s mouth. “God will bring the leprechaun back,” the angel hisses, sure Jesus would feel ashamed before his Father. The winding sheet Jesus wore in the desert now shimmers like heavenly robes and a shining path glistens before his naked feet. The angel steps back, alarmed. Jesus shakes his head. “You know heaven so well, lead the way to God.” He glances at the

Thousand: Nine Hundred Forty-Nine

I asked for cupcakes,” the angel says, wiping a tear. “I did ask for cupcakes.” Quickly he rewraps the leprechaun, tying the bundle around his neck. Then he spins on Jesus. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for making me do this.” And the angel kisses the Son of God on the head, lipping two hairs in the gesture. The wings swing open and in two beats they are in the air, headed straight up. When you know the way it doesn’t take but a moment to get to heaven. The theatrics of a take-off aren’t necessary. God is dead.