weighed hundreds of pounds each as we all heard her approach along the wooden walk.
“Oh, my god!” Davis said, but for a different reason, still staring at me.
“Hide!” Boris shouted in a whisper. “Hide someplace.”
Even Ronald seemed to appreciate the gravity of the situation, his monkey feet pitty-patting in place while his mother tried to figure out what they were going to do.
“Under the crib,” Boris said. “And pull this blanket over you.”
“Okay,” Davis said.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The footsteps drew nearer.
“And Boris?”
“What?”
Davis kissed Boris on the lips. I watched the man’s eyes glaze over. Then he found himself and said, “Now, get under there and be quiet. Please, be quiet.”
umstände
The next step is more complex. It requires skinning the mules or the goats and making the shell of a balloon, which is then filled with hot air and raised to an altitude of some three hundred feet having tethered to it a basket constructed of bones and reeds and straw and chicken feathers and when it’s as high as it’s supposed to be, one shoots at it with a slingshot, trying not to bring it down, but to scare it higher. But who is in the basket to be frightened higher? It is Nobody. Nobody went up in it, there is Nobody in it to be scared, and it will come down with Nobody still in it. And Nobody will go up unless one of us does, however, of course, if I go up alone and someone asks you who is in the basket with me…
tubes 1…6
The Dura Mater
Dense and inelastic,
fibrous,
lining the inner wall
of my skull,
thick where the headaches
live.
The outer surface
is uneven, fibrillated,
clinging
to the inner veneer,
opposite sutures
there at the base,
the smooth insides.
Four processes
press inward,
into the cavity,
supporting, protecting,
prolonged to the outer skin
where the irrevocable
dreams evaporate.
peccatum originale
“What in the world of psychoanalytic shit is going on in here?” Steimmel asked. She was, I believe, intoxicated. Her swaying and the way she held the empty bottle by its neck suggested it. She looked around the room suspiciously. “I know you, Boris. I know you like a book and something is up.” She stared at him. “You’re shaking. Talk, you little beetle!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Steimmel looked over at me. “Of course you don’t. And neither does our pint-sized lexicon over here.” She walked toward me. “I’m going to figure out how you work. Even if I have to literally cut open your head and peek into your brain. Little smart ass. I hate you.”
“Dr. Steimmel, you’re drunk,” Boris said, and none too assertively.
“Oh, you determined this on your own? That’s why you’re the great scientist you are, Boring-is.” She turned her back to me and started back toward Boris. “Your acute powers of observation. Tell me, what hidden clue tipped you off to my condition?”
“Please, Dr. Steimmel.”
“Boris, when I’m done with the little bastard, I’m going to take it upon myself to give you a spine. How does that sound?”
Beneath my crib, Ronald must have moved, because Davis whispered, “Shut up.”
“What did you say?” Steimmel said, turning back to me. Then she stopped. “You said something. Did you hear him, Boris?”
“No, Dr. Steimmel.”
“Well, I did. I heard him as plain as day. As plain as the nose on your face. As plain as that Davis-monkey-woman-doctor.” Steimmel laughed and approached me. “Say something else, tiny wonder.”
You’re mistaken. I said nothing.
She read the note, none too easily, holding it this distance and that, attempting to focus. Behind her, Boris looked about, ready to bolt. I could see that my note was of concern to him.
“You did, too,” Steimmel snapped at me. “You’ve been holding back.” Something inside her made a sudden attack and she fought to swallow. “Boris,” she said, “I’m going to my cottage to be sick. When I get back, be
“Oh, my god!” Davis said, but for a different reason, still staring at me.
“Hide!” Boris shouted in a whisper. “Hide someplace.”
Even Ronald seemed to appreciate the gravity of the situation, his monkey feet pitty-patting in place while his mother tried to figure out what they were going to do.
“Under the crib,” Boris said. “And pull this blanket over you.”
“Okay,” Davis said.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The footsteps drew nearer.
“And Boris?”
“What?”
Davis kissed Boris on the lips. I watched the man’s eyes glaze over. Then he found himself and said, “Now, get under there and be quiet. Please, be quiet.”
umstände
The next step is more complex. It requires skinning the mules or the goats and making the shell of a balloon, which is then filled with hot air and raised to an altitude of some three hundred feet having tethered to it a basket constructed of bones and reeds and straw and chicken feathers and when it’s as high as it’s supposed to be, one shoots at it with a slingshot, trying not to bring it down, but to scare it higher. But who is in the basket to be frightened higher? It is Nobody. Nobody went up in it, there is Nobody in it to be scared, and it will come down with Nobody still in it. And Nobody will go up unless one of us does, however, of course, if I go up alone and someone asks you who is in the basket with me…
tubes 1…6
The Dura Mater
Dense and inelastic,
fibrous,
lining the inner wall
of my skull,
thick where the headaches
live.
The outer surface
is uneven, fibrillated,
clinging
to the inner veneer,
opposite sutures
there at the base,
the smooth insides.
Four processes
press inward,
into the cavity,
supporting, protecting,
prolonged to the outer skin
where the irrevocable
dreams evaporate.
peccatum originale
“What in the world of psychoanalytic shit is going on in here?” Steimmel asked. She was, I believe, intoxicated. Her swaying and the way she held the empty bottle by its neck suggested it. She looked around the room suspiciously. “I know you, Boris. I know you like a book and something is up.” She stared at him. “You’re shaking. Talk, you little beetle!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Steimmel looked over at me. “Of course you don’t. And neither does our pint-sized lexicon over here.” She walked toward me. “I’m going to figure out how you work. Even if I have to literally cut open your head and peek into your brain. Little smart ass. I hate you.”
“Dr. Steimmel, you’re drunk,” Boris said, and none too assertively.
“Oh, you determined this on your own? That’s why you’re the great scientist you are, Boring-is.” She turned her back to me and started back toward Boris. “Your acute powers of observation. Tell me, what hidden clue tipped you off to my condition?”
“Please, Dr. Steimmel.”
“Boris, when I’m done with the little bastard, I’m going to take it upon myself to give you a spine. How does that sound?”
Beneath my crib, Ronald must have moved, because Davis whispered, “Shut up.”
“What did you say?” Steimmel said, turning back to me. Then she stopped. “You said something. Did you hear him, Boris?”
“No, Dr. Steimmel.”
“Well, I did. I heard him as plain as day. As plain as the nose on your face. As plain as that Davis-monkey-woman-doctor.” Steimmel laughed and approached me. “Say something else, tiny wonder.”
You’re mistaken. I said nothing.
She read the note, none too easily, holding it this distance and that, attempting to focus. Behind her, Boris looked about, ready to bolt. I could see that my note was of concern to him.
“You did, too,” Steimmel snapped at me. “You’ve been holding back.” Something inside her made a sudden attack and she fought to swallow. “Boris,” she said, “I’m going to my cottage to be sick. When I get back, be
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