William Fuller

While I was not thrilled to be made a scapegoat I knew my 



role.  The summer was more or less bitter than the fall.  



Chairs creaked when angels sat in them.  The premise of



their argument also creaked.  Along towards winter, hearts



rose.  Something had gotten underway and was proceeding



under its own power down the wet street above the beach.



Motorbikes wove in and out.  Consciousness turned toward a 



drop of blood shed while adding one more stop to the line,



where thousands would never live.  I would never live there



too, but my perceptions were bent from the start.  I couldn’t



distinguish between identical worlds, nor did I understand



how to dilute my own past enough to make it drinkable.



Certain things that I read suggested this could be done by



developing the proper attitude toward what might in theory



transpire given sufficient passage of time.  But I don’t know



what that is.  Things continue on in endless space, my good



old captain said to me.  Meanwhile session one began by 



revoking the law against breaking promises.  Egregious 



examples were set out on a plain oak table overlaid with 



butcher paper.  Crayons were handed round and then 



deposited into a cylinder that appeared at the window. The



session turned strange when one of the examples lurched



through the room, calling the others names.  My right eye



became distracted at the very instant I knew that this may 



not really be the case.  So be it, lights flickered in the sky and 



tall white letters shone brightly, as we easily saw for 



ourselves. Out of them our futures could be foretold, and the



things that would one day exist could be seen hiding behind



the north wind.  There was nobility in these prospects, which



varied depending on the character of the grain being roasted.



Now was not the time that then was, but then no time was, in



the manner of speaking of it.  And although heavenly 



trumpets tendered three notes for each cake of phrase, I 



knew Satan’s Kingdom had a hand in this.  Therefore session



two called for a different approach.  I drew up a map that



showed us here, where the black dots are, with our 



destination being there, at the edge of the fir trees.  I traced a 



fibrous line between them and off we went.  Maybe it was too 



soon after death for things to have stabilized, because when I 



asked about staff reductions your face turned blue.  As we



floated along, a sense of futility followed us at a respectful



distance, occasionally stopping to rest or take notes.  The 



dark air grew thick, and our progress was stalled thanks to 



*Preternatural Stupendious Prodigious assistance by the *



*Devil given thereunto*.  A low theater crept up from the east.  



I presupposed its existence before analyzing it.  Many times 



I’d done the opposite and found myself carefully arranging 



shadows while the objects that supposedly cast them 



wandered off, pursuing whatever desires or whims were



uppermost in their thoughts, without any consideration for 



my efforts, save to ensure they were fruitless.  In fact this 



became something of a trend over the years, until I counted 



myself among those movable shadows, whose relative 



independence only affirmed their contingent, gratuitous



character.  So I assessed the current situation according to



what depth of conviction I could muster about the judgments 



to be made.  For example, was it sunrise or the middle of the 



night?  We were wide awake, certainly.  And there were birds 



singing.  But a sheet lay over the whole village.  Did it appear 



then, as it does now, that the same question could receive



thousands of different answers, and that we may as well have 



been consigned to the nether side of some unknown planet 



as to have been where we were?  This didn’t seem likely, or 



rather there was no need to exaggerate the case or its 



implications, even as the west wind swept through each



tentative disposition proposed.  What felt clear was the sense 



of a mental journey cut short by stupefaction––and by 



open-mouthed disbelief turned despairingly toward an 



empty corner of the room, which had suddenly enclosed us, 



as the dim light from a sconce revealed a single, round object 



at a distance of approximately five feet, either on the floor or 



hovering just above.  No additional details were available.  I 



called out to it; it called out to me.  Next door someone said 



“Wait for the Face Man to come.”  Whether I knew to whom 



this referred I can’t say.  How could such a problem be borne 



without the elusive gauge of poetry?  Was there any way this 



situation could have offered me a more refined sense for



what was lacking, as I struggled to humor it into giving a hint 



what the next step should be?  But there was no next step. 



Present and future were simply abandoned to the insensate 



devouring gorge.  Alternatively, the round object could have 



been a kind of poem, like Wyatt’s “In Æternum,” although



I’m adding that just now.  At the time I had no idea what it 



was or whether it mattered for me to know, or even whether 



its status as an object was worth confirming.  I did 



nevertheless try to confirm it.  I understood X to be true 



owing to reasons* a,b,c*, and *d*.  In reality, though, X was false, 



for those exact same reasons.  The next day I stood waiting



for a train.  Someone else was living inside me now, which 



changed the problem completely.

 



For the sake of illustration I fall asleep and things change as



I breathe them in, the walls becoming floors, the floors be-



coming streets, the streets becoming fields, while various an-



imals, startled, cautious, move warily up the hill and into the



woods, where they revert to a prior state. ere are sometimes



moments of calm arising in an imagination without the dis-



cipline to embrace them. The animals all sense this. They



stalk one another through the trees in order to demonstrate



their most characteristic instincts. But these become detached



from the bodies that house them, which huddle along the



circumference, or glide back and forth through small gaps in



how they were made. Sounds fall to echoes, roughing out a



zone where what one hears matches what one doesn’t hear,



and adjusts to its shadow. 

No one alive knows what my body is feeling right now but 



there’s a way of working it out, and there’s someone who 



knows how to do that, except first we need to wait for the



right conditions, and in the meantime send our strength out



into the disabling humidity to sweat itself into as many drops



as required for oversight of the metropolis called nowhere. 



(When I say my body I refer to the one I had been renting



for many years until recently.) In the past everything was



divisible by two. People would wait behind a wooden fence



while a river of grass swept by. It was either noon or night,



never in between, and most objects tended to be either blue



or green. The sky was a huge lens through which the sun and



planets and stars were magnified. Stone towers would 



perpetually deteriorate, and streets would trail off aimlessly



to the south and east, into the sea. My concern back then 



was the amount of paperwork required to document all this. 



Each day I would create a small chart where I would insert



certain private symbols whose meanings I would guess at.



The sun would tilt on its head, trains would travel 



backwards, and I’d return home to my perch on the hillside,



beside an easel. Sitting up there, I often saw ships laden with



pine cones and red leaves to be applied to skulls of thinkers



in the grass, and these visions lent elasticity to my



temperament, allowing me to handle new events by calmly



outfoxing them. Complications did not fail to ensue. For



example, once as I was writing a poem similar to this one,



a small animal darted across the page. I say animal but note



 a human animal. Despite my training, these were my



immediate feelings: aggravation, annoyance, discomfort,



disgrace, a sense of oppression, destroyed happiness, 



inconvenience, indignation, insult, mortification, outrage,



vexation, wounded pride, mental anguish, humiliation &c.



Well, I think so then and I thought so still. Yet as of today



my eyes have learned to avoid what they project, and so I



follow their lead, focusing on an absent center, so to speak, 



taking that center to be the thing that one day will envelop



me, save that I know this to be false––a false idealization–– 



like a pen or pencil gripped tightly in the fist, stabbing the air



with signs that know no pretense outside of that which



makes them intelligible. Lights flash east of Opportunity



Rocks. Most of what remains gazes up at the hazy patch atop



the night sky, until certain spells leak down like assistants 



sent to make a task more difficult, plucking out spines of



light for dark illumination. Is this what I came here to see,



this thing that once lay beneath my feet, in vaults of 



equanimity, its soil exchanged for what I’d occupy, 



instinctively, in a drone of disappointment? Imagine that 



I’m speaking of the pain I’m feeling in such a way that you



feel it too; and yet I don’t feel anything. I’d love to be part of



what you’re part of, to enjoy some poignant dream as it sighs



in your ear. But I only feel a transcript of real pain. And yet. 



Try not to put it in words. Eventually I’ll know when



something has been left out. Is what necessary? I take a 



short trip through time to find someone whose wings have



grown sheer or at least impressively faint. I listen to dead



voices argue beyond what I can make out, their sentences



rolling to no other purpose than to coax remote things into



view, even though they fail to maintain interest, and serve



simply to punctuate the long night. Yes, amazing. For here



on earth seasons are careless of speech. And there’s no



recompense without injury. Nobody knows where they



stand.