Nova Express (8 page)

And I went to see my amigo who was taking medicina again and he had no money to give me and didn't want to do anything but take more medicina and stood there waiting for me to leave so he could take it after saying he was not going to take any more so I said, “William no me hagas caso—” And met a Cuban that night in The Mar Chica who told me I could work in his band—The next day I said good-bye to William and there was nobody there to listen and I could hear him reaching for his medicina and needles as I closed the door—When I saw the knife I knew Meester William was death disguised as any other person—Pues I saw El Hombre Invisible in a hotel room somewhere tried to reach him with the knife and he said: “If you kill me this crate will come apart at the seams like a rotten undervest”—And I saw a monster crab with hot claws at the window and Meester William took some white medicina and vomited into the toilet and we escaped to Greece with a boy about my age who kept calling Meester William “The Stupid American”—And Meester William looked like a hypnotist I saw once in Tétuan and said: “I have gimmick to beat The Crab but it is very technical”—And we couldn't read what he was writing on transparent sheets—In Paris he showed me The Man who paints on these sheets pictures in the air—And The Invisible Man said:

“These colorless sheets are what flesh is made from—Becomes flesh when it has color and writing—That is Word And Image write the message that is you on colorless sheets determine all flesh.”

And I said: “William, tu éres loco.”

NO GOOD—NO BUENO

So many years—that image—got up and fixed in the sick dawn—
No me hagas caso
—Again he touched like that—smell of dust—The tears gathered—In Mexico again he touched—Codeine pills powdered out into the cold Spring air—Cigarette holes in the vast Thing ­Police—Could give no information other than wind identity fading out—dwindling—“Mr. Martin” couldn't reach is all—Bread knife in the heart—Shadow turned off the lights and water—We intersect on empty walls—Look anywhere—No good—Falling in the dark mutinous door—Dead Hand stretching zero—Five times of dust we made it all the living and the dead—Young form went to Madrid—Demerol by candlelight—Wind hand—The Last Electrician to tap on pane—Migrants arrival—­Poison of dead sun went away and sent papers—Ferry boat cross flutes of Ramadan—Dead muttering in the dog's space—Cigarette hole in the dark—give no information other than the cold Spring cemetery—The Sailor went wrong in corridors of that hospital—Thing Police keep all Board Room Reports is all—Bread knife in the heart proffers the disaster accounts—He just sit down on “Mr. Martin”—Couldn't reach flesh on Nino Perdido—A long time between flutes of Ramadan—No me hagas caso sliding between light and shadow—

“The American trailing cross the wounded galaxies con su medicina, William.”

Half your brain slowly fading—Turned off the lights and water—Couldn't reach flesh—empty walls—Look anywhere—Dead on tracks see Mr. Bradly Mr. Zero—And being blind may not refuse the maps to my blood whom I created—“Mr. Bradly Mr. Martin,” couldn't you write us any better than that?—Gone away—You can look any place—No good—No bueno—

I spit blood under the sliding vulture shadows—At The Mercado Mayorista saw a tourist—A Meester Merican fruto drinking pisco—and fixed me with the eyes so I sit down and drink and tell him how I live in a shack under the hill with a tin roof held down by rocks and hate my brothers because they eat—He says something about “malo viento” and laughs and I went with him to a hotel I know—In the morning he says I am honest and will I come with him to Pucallpa he is going into the jungle looking for snakes and spiders to take pictures and bring them back to Washington they always carry something away even if it is only a spider monkey spitting blood the way most of us do here in the winter when the mist comes down from the mountains and never leaves your clothes and lungs and everyone coughed and spit blood mist on the mud floor where I sleep—We start out next day in a Mixto Bus by night we are in the mountains with snow and the Meester brings out a bottle of pisco and the driver gets drunk down into the Selva came to Pucallpa three days later—The Meester locates a brujo and pays him to prepare Ayahuasca and I take some too and muy mareado—Then I was back in Lima and other places I didn't know and saw the Meester as child in a room with rose wallpaper looking at something I couldn't see—­Tasting roast beef and turkey and ice cream in my throat knowing the thing I couldn't see was always out there in the hall—And the Meester was looking at me and I could see the street boy words there in his throat—Next day the police came looking for us at the hotel and the Meester showed letters to the Commandante so they shook hands and went off to lunch and I took a bus back to Lima with money he gave me to buy equipment—

SHIFT COORDINATE POINTS

K9 was in combat with the alien mind screen—­Magnetic claws feeling for virus punch cards—pulling him into vertiginous spins—

“Back—Stay out of those claws—Shift coordinate points—” By Town Hall Square long stop for the red light—A boy stood in front of the hot dog stand and blew water from his face—Pieces of grey vapor drifted back across wine gas and brown hair as hotel faded photo showed a brass bed—Unknown mornings blew rain in ­cobwebs—Summer evenings feel to a room with rose wallpaper—Sick dawn whisper of clock hands and brown hair—Morning blew rain on copper roofs in a slow haze of apples—Summer light on rose ­wallpaper—Iron mesas lit by a pink volcano—Snow slopes under the Northern shirt—Unknown street stirring sick dawn whispers of junk—Flutes of Ramadan in the distance—St. Louis lights wet cobblestones of future life—Fell through the urinal and the bicycle races—On the bar wall the clock hands—My death across his face faded through
the soccer scores—smell of dust on the surplus army blankets—Stiff jeans against one wall—And KiKi went away like a cat—Some clean shirt and walked out—He is gone through unknown morning blew—“No good—No bueno—Hustling myself—” Such wisdom in gusts—

K9 moved back into the combat area—Standing now in the Chinese youth sent the resistance message jolting clicking tilting through the pinball machine—Enemy plans exploded in a burst of rapid calculations—­Clicking in punch cards of redirected orders—Crackling shortwave static—Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeep—Sound of thinking metal—

“Calling partisans of all nations—Word falling—Photo falling—Break through in Grey Room—Pinball led streets—Free doorways—Shift coordinate points—”

“The ticket that exploded posed little time so I'll say ‘good night'—Pieces of grey Spanish Flu wouldn't photo—Light the wind in green neon—You at the dog—The street blew rain—If you wanted a cup of tea with rose wallpaper—The dog turns—So many and sooo—”

“In progress I am mapping a photo—Light verse of wounded galaxies at the dog I did—The street blew rain—The dog turns—­Warring head intersected Powers—Word falling—Photo falling—Break through in Grey Room—”

He is gone away through invisible mornings leaving a million tape recorders of his voice behind fading into the cold spring air pose a colorless question?

“The silence fell heavy and blue in mountain ­villages—Pulsing mineral silence as word dust falls from demagnetized patterns—Walked through an old blue calendar in Weimar youth—Faded photo on rose wallpaper under a copper roof—In the silent dawn little grey men played in his block house and went away through an invisible door—Click St. Louis under drifting soot of old newspapers—‘Daddy Longlegs' looked like Uncle Sam on stilts and he ran this osteopath clinic outside East St. Louis and took in a few junky patients for two notes a week they could stay on the nod in green lawn chairs and look at the oaks and grass stretching down to a little lake in the sun and the nurse moved around the lawn with her silver trays feeding the junk in—We called her ‘Mother'—Wouldn't you?—Doc Benway and me was holed up there after a rumble in Dallas involving this aphrodisiac ointment and Doc goofed on ether and mixed in too much Spanish Fly and burned the prick off the Police Commissioner straight away—So we come to ‘Daddy Longlegs' to cool off and found him cool and casual in a dark room with potted rubber plants and a silver tray on the table where he liked to see a week in advance—The nurse showed us to a room with rose wallpaper and we had this bell any hour of the day or night ring and the nurse charged in with a loaded hypo—Well one day we were sitting out in the lawn chairs with lap robes it was a fall day trees turning and the sun cold on the lake—Doc picks up a piece of grass—

“Junk turns you on vegetable—It's green, see?—A green fix should last a long time.”

We checked out of the clinic and rented a house and Doc starts cooking up this green junk and the basement was full of tanks smelled like a compost heap of ­junkies—So finally he draws off this heavy green fluid and loads it into a hypo big as a bicycle pump—

“Now we must find a worthy vessel,” he said and we flush out this old goof ball artist and told him it was pure Chinese H from The Ling Dynasty and Doc shoots the whole pint of green right into the main line and the Yellow Jacket turns fibrous grey green and withered up like an old turnip and I said: “I'm getting out of here, me,” and Doc said: “An unworthy vessel obviously—So I have now decided that junk is not green but blue.”

So he buys a lot of tubes and globes and they are flickering in the basement this battery of tubes metal vapor and quicksilver and pulsing blue spheres and a smell of ozone and a little high-fi blue note fixed you right to metal this junk note tinkling through your crystals and a heavy blue silence fell
klunk
—and all the words turned to cold liquid metal and ran off you man just fixed there in a cool blue mist of vaporized bank notes—We found out later that the metal junkies were all radioactive and subject to explode if two of them came into contact—At this point in our researches we intersected The Nova Police—

Chinese Laundry

CHINESE LAUNDRY

When young Sutherland asked me to procure him a commission with the nova police, I jokingly answered: “Bring in Winkhorst, technician and chemist for The Lazarus Pharmaceutical Company, and we will discuss the matter.”

“Is this Winkhorst a nova criminal?”

“No just a technical sergeant wanted for interrogation.”

I was thinking of course that he knew nothing of the methods by which such people are brought in for interrogation—It is a precision operation—First we send out a series of agents—(usually in the guise of journalists)—to contact Winkhorst and expose him to a battery of stimulus units—The contact agents talk and record the response on all levels to the word units while a photographer takes pictures—This material is passed along to The Art Department—Writers write “Winkhorst,” painters paint “Winkhorst,” a method actor
becomes
“Winkhorst,” and then “Winkhorst” will answer our questions—The processing of Winkhorst was already under way—

Some days later there was a knock at my door—Young Sutherland was standing there and next to him a man with coat collar turned up so only the eyes were visible spitting indignant protest—I noticed that the overcoat sleeves were empty.

“I have him in a strait jacket,” said Sutherland propelling the man into my room—“This is Winkhorst.”

I saw that the collar was turned up to conceal a gag—“But—You misunderstood me—Not on this level—I mean really—”

“You said bring in Winkhorst didn't you?”

I was thinking fast: “All right—Take off the gag and the strait jacket.”

“But he'll scream the fuzz in—”

“No he won't.”

As he removed the strait jacket I was reminded of an old dream picture—This process is known as retroactive dreaming—Performed with precision and authority becomes accomplished fact—If Winkhorst did start screaming no one would hear him—Far side of the world's mirror moving into my past—Wall of glass you know—­Winkhorst made no attempt to scream—Iron cool he sat down—I asked Sutherland to leave us promising to put his application through channels—

“I have come to ask settlement for a laundry bill,” Winkhorst said.

“What laundry do you represent?”

“The Chinese laundry.”

“The bill will be paid through channels—As you know nothing is more complicated and time consuming than processing requisition orders for so-called ‘personal expenses'—And you know also that it is strictly forbidden to offer currency in settlement.”

“I was empowered to ask a settlement—Beyond that I know ­nothing—And now may I ask why I have been summoned?”

“Let's not say summoned—Let us just say invited—It's more humane that way you see—Actually we are taking an opinion poll in regard to someone with whom I believe you have a long and close association, namely Mr. Winkhorst of The Lazarus Pharmaceutical Company—We are interviewing friends, relatives, co-­workers to predict his chances for reelection as captain of the chemical executive softball team—You must of course realize the importance of this matter in view of the company motto ‘Always play
soft
ball' is it not?—Now just to give the interview life let us pretend that you are yourself Winkhorst and I will put the questions directly ketch?—Very well Mr. Winkhorst, let's not waste time—We know that you are the chemist responsible for synthesizing the new hallucinogen drugs many of which have not yet been released even for experimental purposes—We know also that you have effected certain molecular alterations in the known hallucinogens that are being freely distributed in many quarters—­Precisely how are these alterations effected?—Please do not be deterred from making a complete statement by my obvious lack of technical knowledge—That is not my job—Your answers will be recorded and turned over to the Technical Department for processing.”

“The process is known as stress deformation—It is done or was done with a cyclotron—For example the mescaline molecule is exposed to cyclotron stress so that the energy field is deformed and some molecules are activated on fissionable level—Mescaline so processed will be liable to produce, in the human subject—(known as ‘canine preparations')—uh unpleasant and dangerous symptoms and in particular ‘the heat syndrome' which is a reflection of nuclear fission—Subjects complain they are on fire, confined in a suffocating furnace, white hot bees swarming in the body—The hot bees are of course the deformed mescaline molecules—I am putting it simply of course—”

“There are other procedures?”

“Of course but always it is a question of deformation or association on a molecular level—Another procedure consists in exposing the mescaline molecule to certain virus cultures—The virus as you know is a very small particle and can be precisely associated on molecular chains—This association gives an additional tune-in with anybody who has suffered from a virus infection such as hepatitis for example—Much easier to produce the heat syndrome in such a preparation.”

“Can this process be reversed? That is can you decontaminate a compound once the deformation has been effected?”

“Not so easy—It would be simpler to recall our stock from the distributors and replace it.”

“And now I would like to ask you if there could be benign associations—Could you for example associate mescaline with apomorphine on a molecular level?”

“First we would have to synthesize the apomorphine formulae—As you know it is forbidden to do this.”

“And for very good reason is it not, Winkhorst?”

“Yes—Apomorphine combats parasite invasion by stimulating the regulatory centers to normalize ­metabolism—A powerful variation of this drug could deactivate all verbal units and blanket the earth in silence, disconnecting the entire heat syndrome.”

“You could do this, Mr. Winkhorst?”

“It would not be easy—certain technical details and so little time—” He held up his thumb and forefinger a quarter inch apart.

“Difficult but not impossible, Mr. Winkhorst?”

“Of course not—If I receive the order—This is unlikely in view of certain facts known to both of us.”

“You refer to the scheduled nova date?”

“Of course.”

“You are convinced that this is inevitable, Mr. Winkhorst?”

“I have seen the formulae—I do not believe in miracles.”

“Of what do these formulae consist, Mr. Winkhorst?”

“It is a question of disposal—What is known as Uranium and this applies to all such raw material is actually a form of excrement—The disposal problem of radioactive waste in any time universe is ultimately insoluble.”

“But if we disintegrate verbal units, that is vaporize the containers, then the explosion could not take place in effect would never have existed—”

“Perhaps—I am a chemist not a prophet—It is considered axiomatic that the nova formulae can not be broken, that the process is irreversible once set in ­motion—All energy and appropriations is now being channeled into escape plans—If you are interested I am empowered to make an offer of evacuation—on a time level of course.”

“And in return?”

“You will simply send back a report that there is no evidence of nova activity on planet earth.”

“What you are offering me is a precarious aqualung existence in somebody else's stale movie—Such people made a wide U turn back to the '20s—Besides the whole thing is ridiculous—Like I send back word from Mercury:: ‘The climate is cool and bracing—The natives are soo friendly'—or ‘On Uranus one is conscious of a lightness in the limbs and an exhilarating sense of freedom'—So Doctor Benway snapped, ‘You will simply send back spitting notice on your dirty nova activity—It is ridiculous like when the egg cracks the climate is cool and bracing'—or ‘Uranus is mushrooming freedom'—This is the old splintered pink carnival 1917—Sad little irrigation ditch—Where else if they have date twisting paralyzed in the blue movies?—You are offering me aqualung scraps—precarious flesh—soiled movie, rag on cock—Intestinal street boy smells through the outhouse.
'
”

“I am empowered to make the offer not assess its validity.”

“The offer is declined—The so-called officers on this planet have panicked and are rushing the first life boat in drag—Such behavior is unbecoming an officer and these people have been relieved of a command they evidently experienced as an intolerable burden in any case—In all my experience as a police officer I have never seen such a downright stupid conspiracy—The nova mob operating here are stumble bums who couldn't even crash our police line-up anywhere else—”

This is the old needling technique to lure a criminal out into the open—Three thousand years with the force and it still works—Winkhorst was fading out in hot spirals of the crab nebula—I experienced a moment of panic—walked slowly to the tape recorder—

“Now if you would be so kind, Mr. Winkhorst, I would like you to listen to this music and give me your ­reaction—We are using it in a commercial on the apomorphine program—Now if you would listen to this music and give me advantage—We are thinking of sullen street boy for this spot—”

I put on some Gnaoua drum music and turned around both guns blazing—Silver needles under tons focus come level on average had opened up still as good as he used to be pounding stabbing to the drum beats—The scorpion controller was on screen blue eyes white hot spitting from the molten core of a planet where lead melts at noon, his body half concealed by the portico of a Mayan temple—A stink of torture chambers and burning flesh filled the room—Prisoners staked out under the white hot skies of Minraud eaten alive by metal ants—I kept distance surrounding him with pounding stabbing light blasts seventy tons to the square inch—The orders loud and clear now: “Blast—Pound—Strafe—Stab—
Kill
”
—The screen opened out—I could see Mayan codices and Egyptian hieroglyphs—­Prisoners screaming in the ovens broken down to insect forms—Life-sized portrait of a pantless corpse hanged to a telegraph pole ejaculating under a white hot sky—Stink of torture when the egg cracks—always to insect forms—Staked out spines gathering mushroom ants—Eyes pop out naked hanged to a telegraph pole of adolescent image—

The music shifted to Pan Pipes and I moved away to remote mountain villages where blue mist swirled through the slate houses—Place of the vine people under eternal moonlight—Pressure removed—Seventy tons to the square inch suddenly moved out—From a calm grey distance I saw the scorpion controller explode in the low pressure area—Great winds whipping across a black plain scattered the codices and hieroglyphs to rubbish heaps of the earth—(A Mexican boy whistling Mambo, drops his pants by a mud wall and wipes his ass with a page from the Madrid codex)—Place of the dust people who live in sand storms riding the wind—
Wind wind wind
through dusty offices and archives—Wind through the board rooms and torture banks of time—

(“A great calm shrouds the green place of the vine people.”)

INFLEXIBLE AUTHORITY

When I handed in my report to The District Supervisor he read it through with a narrow smile—“They have distracted you with a war film and given false information as usual—You are inexperienced of course—Totally green troops in the area—However your unauthorized action will enable us to cut some corners—Now come along and we will get the real facts—”

The police patrol pounded into the home office of Lazarus & Co—

“And now Mr. Winkhorst and you gentlemen of the board, let's have the real story and quickly or would you rather talk to the partisans?”

“You dumb hicks.”

“The information and quickly—We have no time to waste with such as you.”

The D.S. stood there translucent silver sending a solid blast of inflexible authority.

“All right—We'll talk—The cyclotron processes image—It's the microfilm principle—smaller and smaller, more and more images in less space pounded down under the cyclotron to crystal image meal—We can take the whole fucking planet out that way up our ass in a finger stall—Image of both of us good as he used to be—A
stall
you dig—Just old showmen packing our ermines you might say—”

“Enough of that show—Continue please with your statement.”

“Sure, sure, but you see now why we had to laugh till we pissed watching those dumb rubes playing around with photomontage—Like charging a regiment of tanks with a defective slingshot.”

“For the last time out of me—Continue with your statement.”

“Sure, sure, but you see now why we had such lookout on these dumb rubes playing around with a splintered carnival—Charging a regiment of tanks with a defective sanitarium 1917—Never could keep his gas—Just an old trouper is all”—(He goes into a song and dance routine dancing off stage—An 1890 cop picks him up in the wings and brings back a ventriloquist dummy.)

“This, gentlemen, is a death dwarf—As you can see manipulated by remote control—Compliments of Mr. & Mrs. D.”

“Give me a shot,” says the dwarf. “And I'll tell you something interesting.”

Hydraulic metal hands proffer a tray of phosphorescent meal yellow brown in color like pulverized amber—The dwarf takes out a hypo from a silver case and shoots a pinch of the meal in the main line.

“Images—millions of images—That's what I eat—Cyclotron shit—Ever try kicking
that
habit with ­apomorphine?—Now I got all the images of sex acts and torture ever took place anywhere and I can just blast it out and control you gooks right down to the molecule—I got orgasms—I got screams—I got all the images any hick poet ever shit out—My Power's coming—My Power's coming—My Power's coming—” He goes into a faith healer routine rolling his eyes and frothing at the mouth—“And I got millions and millions and millions of images of Me, Me, Me, meee.” (He nods out—He snaps back into focus screaming and spitting at Uranian Willy.) “You hick—You rat—Called the fuzz on me—All right—(Nods out)—I'm finished but you're still a lousy fink—”