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  Hermes, the messenger, tells her the news: ‘Thebes sends the fleet’. The Hellene freemen seek redress. The steersmen steer the xebecs between steep, sheer clefts, where reefs prevent sheltered berth; there, the tempests whelm the decks, then wreck the keels – the helms, left crewless whenever the elements beset these crewmen. The December sleet drenches the tethered nets, then threshes the fettered pegs; hence, the deckmen wedge the kevels, then check the kedges; nevertheless, these vessels teeter. The lee sheets, when drenched, get reft, then rent. The wheelmen, when wet, wrest the wheel.

  Mermen help these helmsmen berth the wrecked vessels; then the Greek crews erect well-defended shelters wherever the fleet gets berthed. Men erect mess tents, then feed sheds. The settlers dredge the kelp beds, then extend the levees. The wreckers heft sledges; then the hewers hew the evergreens when the evergreens get felled. The trestlemen erect trestles; the smeltermen erect smelters. Men smelt the steel; then the deftest welders weld the tempered sheet steel wherever men screw the screws. The best sled ever hewn gets erected. The shell, when welded, resembles the fleetest steed.

  Greek schemers respect shrewdness; hence, the shrewd rebels enter the sled’s secret recess, the sled’s nested crèche, where these few men keep themselves secreted. Then the sled gets sent wherever the nemeses dwell; there, the Greek pretenders pretend: ‘the well-hewn steed represents the perfect present’. The wedded regent sees these presenters present the steed; hence, he decrees: ‘the plebes express excellent reverence’. He never detects the pretense; hence, he errs when he lets the presented steed enter the crenelled keep. The rebels never get detected when the keep gets entered.

  Greek schemers seek egress en ténèbres, then enter the melee – the welter where berserk tempers seethe whenever men’s mettle, then men’s fettle, gets tested; there, the Greek berserkers sever men’s thews, then shred men’s flesh. When the rebels beset defended trenches, the defenders retrench themselves, then strengthen the embedded defences. The strengthened deterrence deters the rebels; nevertheless, these men esteem relentlessness; hence, the rebels expend themselves, then reject détente. We see them repel retrenched defencemen, then render the bested men defenceless.

  Épées, when hefted, skewer the fencers; then wrestlers wrestle these skewered men (men’s knees get threshed; men’s necks get wrenched). Deft fletchers whet steel-edged reeds, then fletch these whetted skewers. When the helmeted men get pelted, the slender needles (les fléchettes) dent the crested helmets. The steel vests deflect even these keen edges; nevertheless, the steel sheen gets etched, then dented. The deserters defect. The men flee these entrenchments, where lepers get trench fever; there, legless men bleed. The welts fester. The severed members, strewn helter-skelter, redden the cerements.

  Bells knell when the keep gets levelled; then Greek rebels cheer when Helen enters her Greek temple (the steepled glebe where jewelled steeples shelter her ephebes); there, the reverends bless the freed empress. The Greek sects revere her gentleness, her tenderness; hence, these prefects help her seek self-betterment. The zen seers tell her: ‘greed begets greed – never be self-centred: be selfless’. She defers. Her deference seems reverent. The empress kneels, then keens her vespers. The pewter censer spews the sweetest peppered scent. She feels refreshed; she feels perfected.

  Helen remembers Crete – the Eden where senescent shepherds (les bergers des bêtes) herd bellwether sheep; there, Helen sees the pebbled steppes (the eskers where chert scree bestrews the ledges). Helen treks wherever herdsmen trek. She sees the veldts where ewes, when fleeced, chew the sedges. She sees the glens, then the dells, where elk herds chew the vetch. She helps the herders erect fenced pens where hens peck feed; then she helps the shepherdesses sell the eggs. The sheepherders mend fences; the sheeptenders tend hedges. The sheepbreeders even breed steer, then geld them.

  Helen sees the September breezes bend the elm trees (the perches where the egrets, then the grebes, perch themselves); there, the petrels, then the tercels, nest. Helen lets the geese peck seedlet kernels (except when ferrets pester the mews). The kestrels screech. The wrens peep: tweet, tweet. The terns keen: cheep, cheep. The peewee peetweets tweedle: tweedledee, tweedledee. The creeks wend between beech trees, then end where freshets feed the meres (there, the speckled perch teem; there, the freckled newts rest). The leverets, then the shrews, chew the nettles. The dew bedews the ferns.

  When Vermeer sketches les belles femmes de Delft, he remembers Helen, then lends these sketches her extreme sereneness. When the sketchers (Erté, Ernst, Klee, Léger – even Bellmer) render les événements des rêves, these esthetes get felt pens, then sketch her presence. She seems sexless; nevertheless, men esteem her pert svelteness (her slender legs, her perfect feet); she represents perfectness; hence, we never see her defects (the speckles, the freckles). Men see her elven slenderness, then pledge themselves her serfs. She resembles Eve, the temptress – hence: elle régne éternellement.

  CHAPTER I

  for Dick Higgins

  Writing is inhibiting. Sighing, I sit, scribbling in ink this pidgin script. I sing with nihilistic witticism, disciplining signs with trifling gimmicks – impish hijinks which highlight stick sigils. Isn’t it glib? Isn’t it chic? I fit childish insights within rigid limits, writing shtick which might instill priggish misgivings in critics blind with hindsight. I dismiss nitpicking criticism which flirts with philistinism. I bitch; I kibitz – griping whilst criticizing dimwits, sniping whilst indicting nitwits, dismissing simplistic thinking, in which philippic wit is still illicit.

  Pilgrims, digging in shifts, dig till midnight in mining pits, chipping flint with picks, drilling schist with drills, striking it rich mining zinc. Irish firms, hiring micks whilst firing Brits, bring in smiths with mining skills: kilnwrights grilling brick in brickkilns, millwrights grinding grist in gristmills. Irish tinsmiths, fiddling with widgits, fix this rig, driving its drills which spin whirring drillbits. I pitch in, fixing things. I rig this winch with its wiring; I fit this drill with its piping. I dig this ditch, filling bins with dirt, piling it high, sifting it, till I find bright prisms twinkling with glitz.

  Hiking in British districts, I picnic in virgin firths, grinning in mirth with misfit whims, smiling if I find birch twigs, smirking if I find mint sprigs. Midspring brings with it singing birds, six kinds (finch, siskin, ibis, tit, pipit, swift), whistling shrill chirps, trilling chirr chirr in high pitch. Kingbirds flit in gliding flight, skimming limpid springs, dipping wingtips in rills which brim with living things: krill, shrimp, brill – fish with gilt fins, which swim in flitting zigs. Might Virgil find bliss implicit in this primitivism? Might I mimic him in print if I find his writings inspiring?

  Fishing till twilight, I sit, drifting in this birch skiff, jigging kingfish with jigs, bringing in fish which nip this bright string (its vivid glint bristling with stick pins). Whilst I slit this fish in its gills, knifing it, slicing it, killing it with skill, shipwrights might trim this jib, swinging it right, hitching it tight, riding brisk winds which pitch this skiff, tipping it, tilting it, till this ship in crisis flips. Rigging rips. Christ, this ship is sinking. Diving in, I swim, fighting this frigid swirl, kicking, kicking, swimming in it till I sight high cliffs, rising, indistinct in thick mists, lit with lightning.

  Lightning blinks, striking things in its midst with blinding light. Whirlwinds whirl; driftwinds drift. Spindrift is spinning in thrilling whirligigs. Which blind spirit is whining in this whistling din? Is it this grim lich, which is writhing in its pit, lifting its lid with whitish limbs, rising, vivific, with ill will in its mind, victimizing kids timid with fright? If it is – which blind witch is midwifing its misbirth, binding this hissing djinni with witching spiritism? Is it this thin, sickish girl, twitching in fits, whilst writing things in spirit-writing? If it isn’t – it is I; it is I …

  Lightning flicks its riding whip, blitzing this night with bright schisms. Sick with phthisis in this drizzling mist, I limp, sniffling, spitting bilic spit, itching livid
skin (skin which is tingling with stinging pinpricks). I find this frigid drisk dispiriting; still, I fight its chilling windchill. I climb cliffs, flinching with skittish instincts. I might slip. I might twist this infirm wrist, crippling it, wincing whilst I bind it in its splint, cringing whilst I gird it in its sling; still, I risk climbing, sticking with it, striving till I find this rift, in which I might fit, hiding in it till winds diminish.

  Minds grim with nihilism still find first light inspiring. Mild pink in tint, its shining twilight brings bright tidings which lift sinking spirits. With firm will, I finish climbing, hiking till I find this inviting inn, in which I might sit, dining. I thirst. I bid girls bring stiff drinks – gin fizz which I might sip whilst finishing this rich dish, nibbling its tidbits: ribs with wings in chili, figs with kiwis in icing. I swig citric drinks with vim, tippling kirsch, imbibing it till, giggling, I flirt with girlish virgins in miniskirts: wink, wink. I miss living in sin, pinching thighs, kissing lips pink with lipstick.

  Slick pimps, bribing civic kingpins, distill gin in stills, spiking drinks with illicit pills which might bring bliss. Whiz kids in silk-knit shirts script films in which slim girls might strip, jiggling tits, wiggling hips, inciting wild shindigs. Twin siblings in bikinis might kiss rich bigwigs, giving this prim prig his wish, whipping him, tickling him, licking his limp dick till, rigid, his prick spills its jism. Shit! This ticklish victim is trifling with kink. Sick minds, thriving in kinship with pigs, might find insipid thrills in this filth. This flick irks critics. It is swinish; it is piggish. It stinks.

  Thinking within strict limits is stifling. Whilst Viking knights fight griffins, I skirmish with this riddling sphinx (this sigil – I). I print lists, filing things (kin with kin, ilk with ilk), inscribing this distinct sign, listing things in which its imprint is intrinsic. I find its missing links, divining its implicit tricks. I find it whilst skindiving in Fiji; I find it whilst picnicking in Linz. I find it in Inniskillin; I find it in Mississippi. I find it whilst skiing in Minsk. (Is this intimism civilizing if Klimt limns it, if Liszt lilts it?) I sigh; I lisp. I finish writing this writ, signing it, kind sir: NIHIL DICIT, FINI.

  CHAPTER O

  for Yoko Ono

  Loops on bold fonts now form lots of words for books. Books form cocoons of comfort – tombs to hold bookworms. Profs from Oxford show frosh who do post-docs how to gloss works of Wordsworth. Dons who work for proctors or provosts do not fob off school to work on crosswords, nor do dons go off to dorm rooms to loll on cots. Dons go crosstown to look for bookshops known to stock lots of top-notch goods: cookbooks, workbooks – room on room of how-to books for jocks (how to jog, how to box), books on pro sports: golf or polo. Old colophons on schoolbooks from schoolrooms sport two sorts of logo: oblong whorls, rococo scrolls – both on worn morocco.

  Monks who vow to do God’s work go forth from donjons of monkhood to show flocks lost to God how God’s word brooks no crooks who plot to do wrong. Folks who go to Sodom kowtow to Moloch, so God drops H-bombs of horror onto poor townsfolk, most of whom mock Mormon proofs of godhood. Folks who do not follow God’s norms word for word woo God’s scorn, for God frowns on fools who do not conform to orthodox protocol. Whoso honors no cross of dolors nor crown of thorns doth go on, forsooth, to sow worlds of sorrow. Lo! No Song of Solomon comforts Job or Lot, both of whom know for whom gongs of doom doth toll. Oh, mondo doloroso.

  Porno shows folks lots of sordor – zoom-shots of Björn Borg’s bottom or Snoop Dogg’s crotch. Johns who don condoms for blowjobs go downtown to Soho to look for pornshops known to stock lots of lowbrow schlock – off-color porn for old boors who long to drool onto color photos of cocks, boobs, dorks or dongs. Homos shoot photos of footlong schlongs. Blond trollops who don go-go boots flop pompoms nonstop to do promos for floorshows. Wow! Hot blonds who doff cotton frocks show off soft bosoms. Hot to trot, two blonds who smooch now romp on cold wood floors for crowds of morons, most of whom hoot or howl: whoop, whoop.

  Blond showfolk who do soft porn go to boomtowns to look for work on photo shoots. Molls who hobnob from mob boss to mob boss croon solos from old torchsongs. Molls who do so do so molto sordo – too slow for most crowds to follow, so most crowds scoff: boo, boo. Folks who do not know how to plot common chords for rock songs or folk songs soon look for good songbooks on how to do so. Folks too cool to go to sock hops go to Woodstock rock shows to do pot, not to foxtrot to Motown rondos of pop, bop or doo-wop. Congo bongos throb to voodoo hoodoo; tom-toms for powwows go boom, boom. Gongs go bong. Kotos go bonk. Horns honk: toot, toot.

  Folks from Kokomo do lots of shrooms (not snow, not blow – no form of hops). Folks who long to prolong moods of torpor do Zoloft or nod off on two drops of chloroform. Goofs who goof off go off to poolrooms to jolt down lots of good strong bock from Coors or Stroh. Most tosspots who toss down jolts of Grolsch do so to drown sorrows. Poor sots, blotto on two shots of scotch, go loco for old port or hot grog. Lots of hobos who do odd jobs for food go off to work to work on jobs no boss stoops to do – jog brooms of soot, mop floors of loos. Old coots, known to go to grogshops for snorts of wormwood hooch, go on to mooch dogfood from dogs.

  Snobs who go to Bonn for bonbons know how to shop for good food: go to Moncton for cod, go to Concord for lox. Cooks who know how to cook coq d’or cook cochon d’Ormont or cochon d’Orloff, not pork chops or pork hocks. Cooks who do not know how to cook posh food do not opt to shop for lots of tools: no woks, spoons or forks, no pots, crocks or bowls. Cooks from Foochow or Soochow chow down on two sorts of broth: oolong or wonton. Folks from Stockholm scoff down bowls of borscht. Folks too poor to chow down on bon porc or coq gros wolf down corncobs or corndogs. Moms cook hotdogs for tots who chomp on orts of popcorn.

  Scows from London go to Moscow, not to Boston, to drop off bolts of mothproof cloth: wool for long johns, wool for work socks. Moors from Morocco, not from Kowloon, go to Oporto to drop off two sorts of orlon floss (both sold to commonfolk, most of whom know how to do clothwork on looms): spools of cord (for hooks to hook), spools of woof (for combs to comb). Folks who work on looms knot knots to form cloth goods for showrooms to show: cotton shorts or cotton smocks – lots of togs for fops who go from shop to shop to look for thong gowns, now worn to proms. Folks who don ponchos for comfort don boots or clogs to go for strolls on downtown docks.

  Brown logbooks show how scows from Norfolk go from port to port to stow on docks tons of hotchpotch goods: tools from workrooms, props from workshops (cogs for motors, rods for rotors) – box on box of foolproof clocks, row on row of clockwork robots. Scows from Toronto tow lots of logs thrown onto pontoons: tons of softwood, tons of cordwood – block on block of wood good for woodwork: boxwood, bowwood, dogwood, logwood (most sorts of wood sold to workfolks who work for old wood-shops). Holds hold loot from Hong Kong or gold from Fort Knox. Old stockrooms stock lots of shopworn dross: doorknobs for doors, lockworks for locks.

  Dhows from Colombo confront monsoons – strong storms known to slosh spoom onto prows of sloops. Folks who row old scows to cross floods of froth do not row scows worn down from wood rot (for most dolts who do so go forth, shorn of control, to rock, to roll, on storm-blown bobs of cork – now blown to or fro, now blown on or off, most known plots to known ports): whoosh, whoosh. Moms who sob for lost sons blow conch horns to honor poor fools who, thrown from port bows, go down, down, down (oh no) to drown – lost for good, now food for worms. Pods of octopods swoop down onto schools of cod to look for food: swoosh, swoosh.

  Cold stormfronts from snowstorms blow snow onto fjords north of Oslo. Most storms howl for months: frost snows onto woods; froth blows onto rocks. From now on, snowplows plow snow. Cool brooks flow from grottos, down oxbows, to form pools or ponds. Long fronds of moonwort, known to grow from offshoot growths of rootstock, grow on moss bogs of sod. Soft blossoms of snowdrop now bloom on moors. Soon fog, not smog, rolls off old lochs onto boondocks of phlox. Lots of frogs hop from rock to rock: ‘frog, pond, plop’. Cows moo-moo to foghorns. Dogs bow-w
ow to moonglow. Most loons coo soft coos: coo, coo. Hoot owls hoot: hoo, hoo.

  Brown storks flock to brooks to look for schools of smolt or schools of snook. Wolf dogs (los lobos) prowl woods or moors to look for spoor of wood-fowl or moorfowl. Most sorts of fox go off to snoop for coops known to hold woodcocks or moorcocks. Zoos known to stock zoomorphs (crocs or komodos, coons or bonobos) show off odd fowl: condors, hoopoos, flocks of owls or loons (not flocks of rocs or dodos). Most sloths, too slow to scoot from log to log, loll on mossgrown knolls of cottonwood to chomp on bollworms. Most worms molt from soft pods of cocoons to form broods of moths (two sorts: wood moth or moon moth): shoo, moth, shoo.

  Scots from hogtowns or cowtowns work from cockcrow to moondown – to chop down woodlots, to plow down cornrows. Folks who work from morn to noon throw down slop to hogs or corn to sows. Most workfolk who sow crops of broomcorn grow corn crops sown from lots of cowflop compost (blobs of poo or globs of goo). From two o’clock on, workfolk groom colts born of broncos. Most cowfolk who hold onto cowprods to prod two sorts of ox (shorthorn or pronghorn) flog no shod ox sold to tow oxplows. Most honchos who own lots of longhorns on hoof shoot cows known to host cowpox. Dogs growl. Hogs snort. Most rooks or crows roost on rooftops.

  Crooks who con folks go door to door to show folks lots of books on how to boost longshot growth of hot-shot stocks or low-cost bonds. Crooks who do so fob off fool’s gold onto fools. Crowds of droogs, who don workboots to stomp on downtrod hobos, go on to rob old folks, most of whom own posh co-op condos. Goons who shoot folks knock down doors, storm control rooms. Bronx cops do crowd control. Corps of shock-troops cordon off two blocks of shops to look for kooks who concoct knock-off bombs. Corps of storm-troops confront mobs of lowborn hoods, most of whom lob Molotov bombs to bomb pollbooths or tollbooths: pow, pow – boom.