House of Leaves (73 page)

— For
a Captain.
Greece.

August
23, 1988

The
Reason
(II)

Your place is
secured.

So the promise.

So Jacob’s
death.

But the
line
hasn’t
decided

your name.

Skip. Skip.

Daily-ho. Esau.

“Sold” cried the blackfaced man

with
a tarnished gavel,

and two
men went forth to retrieve

what Pelican deemed to be the ugliest

phonograph he’d
ever
seen.

“k’s an
Edison”

And
so
itwas.

And
so that
name also
had something

to do
with
currents

—right?

—
For the Captain’s wife. Greece.

August
23, 1988

The Lie (III)

Heavy,
heavy blues

are
absinthe for me

tonight.

“It’s
the
notes

and the black
and
white photographs

with tattered edges

that go together so well

—Don’t you think so?—

with brass.”

“You’re lost.”

“I
know”

“Again.”

“Again.”

Putting out his hat

Pelican catches a coin

and delights in the fact

that it’s not brass but gold:

could be turned into a cufflink

or could be used to buy something.

Though to tell you the truth

there never really was any coin

nor for that matter a hat,

— For Spiros and Tatiana. Greece.

August 23,
1988

Human light
gone
from Human light at dawn

Does pain

always human bolt the door,

misunderstanding

the difference between untouched nerves and hollowness?

Perhaps, for instance,

Pelican’s afraid.

(it
happens)

The matter he claims

is that there’s no one

“for all to see no one”

can’t see

can’t
hear

can’t find

But I still can feel this,

all of this,

like an ulcer in the gut.

— For a waitress in Athens.

August
25, 1988

The Price of the Tenement
having,
to do with

Previous
Questions having to do
with

Residence
.

The complaint had to do

with
whether or not

Pelican was a
uxorious man,

“A
s
if
that were a question

that played by the rules of today.”

“A
nd what,”
inquired a fiendish Stave,

seeking perhaps to catch

a contradiction.

“What are those?”

Yesterday’s fools

for historical fiction

who rent my palms.

But there is always
renting

and ravings

and
various degrees to
saving

and
Pelican
knows

he never
really
rented.

He just bought
outright.

— For
a young
French
woman. Mycenac, Greece.

August
28, 1988

The Inner Whisper of
Breezes Brushing over Fields of Color

The catechism

followed a violent protest

which
foll
owed the innocent
expression
of a wandering idea.

E
asle
refused to tell
its

nature but
did
end up saying—

“Now that,
that is
an
unforgivable tric
k.”

The commotion
mounted,
Zenethic in climate,

leaving the sane

wonderfully disparate.

Meanwhile Pelican intended to go

on a
mild
wandering
through

colorful weeds,

but the weeds were

tinder
alight
in his eyes

and God what a formidable

headache.

What will I do?

— For a French man in
Mycenae.

August
28, 1988

The Principle
that
Swung—Rocking
Back

and Forth—Like
a Bead on a
String—Hung

Between
Paintings

The price failed to respect

the effect

that four flat
bills

two
flat gold coins

along
with three
smaller

copper ones

had on the counter.

“Pelican turn off
the
lamp”

and he clicked off

the fortyfive watt
bulb

used for reading,

for lighting
his
way.

“Shakespeare’s
troublesome.

Why Why simply
because

when I was young I couldn’t understand.

I never knew what
was
going on.”

—
For another French man in

Mycenae.
August
28, 1988

A Pelican Wish

The ruminations
are mine,

let

the world

be yours.

—
For no one, Olympia, Greece.

August
31, 1988

Before Him reuniting
story lines
he never knew but was freshly told of then

The passing promise

was just an
eyef
ul
glance

promising just that
—

and I saw more,

usually
do
—

the
kept oblation

for
razor’d sight —

“I
really believe you’re

shredding boundaries”

The
light.

Dear
Elihu,

Just wondered if you
might

reconstruct
some wisdom

regarding
the
journeyman’s decision.

But another
journeyman’s
passage

cut
the
scape and

broke Pelican quickly

with
a genuine

embrace,

— For Camille
at the Youth Hostel.

Naples,
Italy.
September 2, 1988

More
than
a café —u
n vent d’eau

If there were a clue worth holding onto it was the nail,

the strongest point that alone,

at first,

fixed
and
recreated,

the house.

But Pelican was not a detective

and did not follow the process.

His eyes were old and full

and after all the house

his friends had spoken of

still stood.

He tapped his fingers playfully

on the wall

—tap! tap! tap!

He smiled a bit.

It seemed right to him,

not at long last

but right along the way.

‘Where I’ve been.

Where 1 am,’

he said and then sighing

added—

“I’d like to return
one
day

if only for
a little while

to drink something warm.”

— Le Clou
Dc
Paris. Rue Danton, Paris.

August 12,
1990

C.

Collages

#1

#2

D.

Obituary

At Mr. Truant’s request, we have omitted
the last
name
of
his
father as well as
several
other details.

—
The Editors