CAST OF CHARACTERS
The Agent: The Agent, assigned vaguely by the government to tail Ines, the poet, has fallen in love with her.
Charl: Charlatan Gregory, media (the Garble) mogul who has targeted Ines in his papers, wants to be shot, have a near-death experience, and report on it in order to be admired.
Verball: A sort of failed thinker, now killer, he has hacked to pieces Harry preparatory to killing Ines.
Harry: Victim of Verball’s axe murder, now existing only in ghostlike pieces, she haunts Verball.
Orphée: Possibly passé folklike singer, tried to shoot Ines, is now saddled with Verball with whom he once had an affair.
C.S.: Younger poet, female, tried to shoot Ines, and is now preparing to shoot Charl.
Cop: Assigned to Ines’s case after first attempted murder of her, has been transformed into lucidmindedness by this association.
Ines: Verball’s ultimate victim, also the author of various poems promulgated and attacked via the Garble. She has the power of Eversion: she can turn you insideout -- that is, totally fuck you over --with her words. She is also the tutelary deity to whom Harry prays.
I’m going to shoot Charl, Orphée thinks
I can’t let this bastard run my life --
Should I hire someone? Cowardly, and
I’ve always had a gun. Fate
handed it to me years ago, as if to
say one day everything’ll come together
You’ll know why you own this object
cold iron bearer of power; I, Fate
will clarify your tale, at the appropriate time.
I crafty, imperious Fate: I’m
always writing a song, Orphée thinks.
Should I shoot him overtly, allow
myself to be taken into custody? What would
my defense be? What, really, is my
motive?
Is it to keep the truth from being
published? Has
fear of his papers’ exposure of facts
they don’t even know yet
turned me into
a devious weaselly Thing? For example
I could kill Verball instead -- no risk of exposure then
Do the world a favor, he’s a murderer
No you can’t shoot a former lover. Yes
a lover’s who you shoot. Verball
has done this most awful thing, but Charl’s
who we hate. Charl wants to own us
Verball can’t remember what day it is.
I need to kill someone; I’ve lost my definition
It’s Ines’s fault, but I can’t kill her, I’ve
tried.
What if I can’t kill anyone? You have to
be able to kill somebody. Do I believe
that but God won’t let me -- which god?
I’m my own god, dammit I have
the right to shoot your malicious ass the
precedent acts
of my ancestors
declare that to kill will regenerate
me from
this outrageous unsanctified tension I
can’t shake.
*
The ghost of Harry’s ghost, ghost pieces,
have begun to
whisper to Verball -- I still
don’t know why I was born
mouth I was born eye I was born
and foot and finger
why? Sequins for the throat of chaos
a collar for
that monster -- Not a monster, says a
Voice.
Harry won’t shut down, her last
bits flit through Verball’s world
He’s walking
on the rue des Pins, in a
meander towards Ines. Whom
Angel Agent
watches. The pieces of Harry
glint among ghost trees, they look
like torn cloth lights. I’m in and
out of you:
It’s an enemy world; nothing asked to be
brought into it and then you can’t stand to
leave
Everyone keeps making me
go, oh drag her away. Chaos do you love
my piecemeal
display? I’m still being dragged away,
Verball
Chaos doesn’t own me yet. Come along
says a
voice. The trees. Aren’t there. Either
The fucking dead old used up -- they
were for us --
it was all for us, to be prosperous in the
eyes of god -- which god? Kill anything . . .
Reader, Harry’s pieces, thoughts and warped
shrieks
come from the borders of timelessness
are certainly as real as your convention
your currency, no? She’ll never leave me
once the words have floated through
they never leave you
*
Who is forcing who; I won’t let you
tell me to
The lines of constraint the silver
threads so
tough -- the future holds you to it
When first I entered this blindness
some call light
are you fortunate, is fate fickle; if
you al-
literate I won’t call you sweetheart
any more, but
if you shoot Charl I might -- who
whose ethics?
Playing you for a Sucker. C.S. enters
Charl’s outer offices -- no one looks up at
her
Don’t make the people nervous
Charl has
ordered his staff. One secretary asks
what she wishes
I’m here to interview Mr. Gregory
for Blatant Magazine the literary journal
I have an appointment. Yes of course
Charl in his office sees her approach
slowly -- he
sees her slowly, walking on the balls
of her feet, dancing toward him to
create his future . . .
And at that moment, Orphée has
forced his
way in, past the sec -- there’s some-
one with
Mr. Gregory. I’m more important,
he says
C.S. sees Orphée’s gun -- shit, he’s
upstaging me
and fires hers quickly, as does Orphée
two
competing shots, one into each side of
Charl’s
semi-protected torso. Then,
the assassins stare at each other
How can this have happened?
Everything is out of control
*
Has he gone to the hospital,
where’s Charl --
He’s much nearer death than he’d
anticipated . . .
intensive care blips, and inside him:
famished for light, he sits on a cold
dark beach
a Northern Ocean; waiting
for ship of death, or sunrise? there’s
a big liner way out there -- should he
swim to it through ice water
What comes towards him, then, is a
black
cloud. I am everything, it says
You wanted the vision of your
culture’s choice?
You got no choice. You thought you
knew all the stories? You are a
bread-winner supreme
there’s no bread here.
You have eyes for light,
there aren’t any fucking eyes. You
want something? Do you? There
isn’t something here. You don’t get to be lifted
up arms of the god of your
choice. And you don’t get any S & M
punishment thrills . . .
You aren’t even here, I am. This is what
there
is, what your life was -- negative --
what you gonna fucking do with that
if you get to go back, re-
materialized into your familiar mammalian
odors. Where were you your
whole, moribund life? Dreaming
of significance. Your blood’s being
pumped back into you; your money’s in the
lobby cash machine, want some?
Charl doesn’t know what he can want.
Feel so cold but can’t want warm,
there isn’t any.
*
I, Ines, wait. I’m waiting for you -- not you
Verball. I’m
waiting for nameless knowledge. It’s come
before, but then
I’d forget. Being pulled into alignment with
Power. What else. Call it
no tabulation of sacrifices or worth . . .
doesn’t care. Or
is that true? I’m waiting for you. I’m
not a you.
It tells you there is no time or you or
moon
in sense of symbol or body you
know. I don’t talk
Outside, the Street’s whistling, as stupid
as ever.
Waiting to see if I’ll die -- not waiting
for its own erasure: when Weather
will decimate its customs, and the Garble
howl itself to death, even
the Garble. This woman’s nothing, thinks
the Street
She doesn’t even have a price. No
silver sash on her ass signifying
the offer
Could we have done it any other way?
Of course. Will I die without respect
even for Death, or Chaos? Now, my
dear, you’d say,
illumine us with a positive counter-
vision.
I’m not, like Verball, mad. Bound up
with numbers, balancing acts. I
don’t impose order. Though I’m still
trying not to hurt
anyone, why? I dream that I’m the
murderer and awaken fearful. Everything’s
contagious -- violence, paranoia,
lovesickness too
I’m waiting
I’m waiting for you.
*
Cop visits me to talk. So,
we don’t have any antecedents, he says
I declare myself without context, I say
And anyway
global trade erases our backgrounds.
I used to have a story but
Charl got hold of that aspect
of us. The University shreds us too
There’s nothing to declare to customs
except for
purchased goods . . . Then, Cop says,
I have no life because there aren’t
any lives. Figures
In a dark void. Why not?
How hard am I? he asks. I
don’t know, I say. As hard as
St. Francis of Assisi? You’re
hard if you can’t give in. There’s nothing
that gives in me
Are you boasting? he says. Who’d care? I say
The Street cares, he says.
It’s so dishonest, I answer, it doesn’t recog-
nize its own smell
Not excremental but like dying flesh,
like Charl . . .
I feel a call from his coma, I go on
He’s scared as hell of dying. His tiny
mote soul is desperate for
compassion, some golden god . . .
Shouldn’t you go sit next to him? Cop says
Aren’t you the Tutelary?
Yes, I say, but he’s disgusting
it’s the dumbass rich not the poor that we
always have with us. Their useless
emotions attached to nothing
panic them into a rags-
in-the-wind performance of -- was
this ever -- a life? Shit on him. I don’t have to
go for just anyone. Not yet; something else is about to
happen