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Conchita debemos to speak totalmente in English cuando we go into Sears okay      Por qué Porque didn’t you hear lo que pasó      It say on the eleven o’clock news anoche que two robbers was caught in Sears and now this is the part I’m not completely segura que I got everything porque channel 2 tiene tú sabes that big fat guy that’s hard to understand porque his nose sit on his lip like a elefante pues the point es que the robbers the police say was two young men pretty big y one have a hairy face and the other is calvo that’s right he’s baldy and okay believe me qué barbaridad porque Hairy Face and Mister Baldy goes right into the underwear department takes all the money from the caja yeah uh-huh the cash register and mira Mister Baldy goes to this poor Italian woman that I guess would be like us sixty o sixty-five who is in the section of the back-support brassieres and he makes her put a big bra over her head para que she can’t see nothing and kneel like she’s talking to God to save her poor life and other things horrible pero the point como dije es que there was two of them and both was speaking Spanish y por eso is a good thing Conchita so the people at Sears don’t confuse us with Hairy and Baldy that we speak English only okay ready Oh what a nice day to be aquí en Sears Miss Conception

Done is a battle on the dragon black, Our champion Christ confoundit has his force; The yetis of hell are broken with a crack, The sign triumphal raisit is of the cross, The devillis trymmillis with hiddous voce, The saulis are borrowit and to the bliss can go, Christ with his bloud our ransonis dois indoce: Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro. Dungan is the deidly dragon Lucifer, The cruewall serpent with the mortal stang; The auld kene tiger, with his teith on char, Whilk in a wait has lyen for us so lang, Thinking to grip us in his clawis strang; The merciful Lord wald nocht that it were so, He made him for to failye of that fang. Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro. He for our saik that sufferit to be slane, And lyk a lamb in sacrifice was dicht, Is lyk a lion risen up agane, And as a gyane raxit him on hicht; Sprungen is Aurora radious and bricht, On loft is gone the glorious Apollo, The blissful day departit fro the nicht: Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro. The grit victour again is rissen on hicht, That for our querrell to the deth was woundit; The sun that wox all pale now shynis bricht, And, derkness clearit, our faith is now refoundit; The knell of mercy fra the heaven is soundit, The Christin are deliverit of their wo, The Jowis and their errour are confoundit: Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro. The fo is chasit, the battle is done ceis, The presone broken, the jevellouris fleit and flemit; The weir is gon, confermit is the peis, The fetteris lowsit and the dungeon temit, The ransoun made, the prisoneris redeemit; The field is won, owrecomen is the fo, Dispuilit of the treasure that he yemit: Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

When awful darkness and silence reign Over the great Gromboolian plain, Through the long, long wintry nights; — When the angry breakers roar As they beat on the rocky shore; — When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights Of the Hills of the Chankly Bore: — Then, through the vast and gloomy dark, There moves what seems a fiery spark, A lonely spark with silvery rays Piercing the coal-black night, — A Meteor strange and bright: — Hither and thither the vision strays, A single lurid light. Slowly it wander, — pauses, — creeps, — Anon it sparkles, — flashes and leaps; And ever as onward it gleaming goes A light on the Bong-tree stems it throws. And those who watch at that midnight hour From Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower, Cry, as the wild light passes along, — "The Dong! — the Dong! "The wandering Dong through the forest goes! "The Dong! the Dong! "The Dong with a luminous Nose!" Long years ago The Dong was happy and gay, Till he fell in love with a Jumbly Girl Who came to those shores one day. For the Jumblies came in a sieve, they did, — Landing at eve near the Zemmery Fidd Where the Oblong Oysters grow, And the rocks are smooth and gray. And all the woods and the valleys rang With the Chorus they daily and nightly sang, — "Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and the hands are blue And they went to sea in a sieve. Happily, happily passed those days! While the cheerful Jumblies staid; They danced in circlets all night long, To the plaintive pipe of the lively Dong, In moonlight, shine, or shade. For day and night he was always there By the side of the Jumbly Girl so fair, With her sky-blue hands, and her sea-green hair. Till the morning came of that hateful day When the Jumblies sailed in their sieve away, And the Dong was left on the cruel shore Gazing — gazing for evermore, — Ever keeping his weary eyes on That pea-green sail on the far horizon, — Singing the Jumbly Chorus still As he sate all day on the grassy hill, — "Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and the hands are blue And they went to sea in a sieve. But when the sun was low in the West, The Dong arose and said; — "What little sense I once possessed Has quite gone out of my head!" — And since that day he wanders still By lake and dorest, marsh and hills, Singing — "O somewhere, in valley or plain "Might I find my Jumbly Girl again! "For ever I'll seek by lake and shore "Till I find my Jumbly Girl once more!" Playing a pipe with silvery squeaks, Since then his Jumbly Girl he seeks, And because by night he could not see, He gathered the bark of the Twangum Tree On the flowery plain that grows. And he wove him a wondrous Nose, — A Nose as strange as a Nose could be! Of vast proportions and painted red, And tied with cords to the back of his head. — In a hollow rounded space it ended With a luminous Lamp within suspended, All fenced about With a bandage stout To prevent the wind from blowing it out; — And with holes all round to send the light, In gleaming rays on the dismal night. And now each night, and all night long, Over those plains still roams the Dong; And above the wail of the Chimp and Snipe You may hear the squeak of his plaintive pipe While ever he seeks, but seeks in vain To meet with his Jumbly Girl again; Lonely and wild — all night he goes, — The Dong with a luminous Nose! And all who watch at the midnight hour, From Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower, Cry, as they trace the Meteor bright, Moving along through the dreary night, — "This is the hour when forth he goes, "The Dong with a luminous Nose! "Yonder — over the plain he goes; "He goes! "He goes; "The Dong with a luminous Nose!"

When fishes flew and forests walked And figs grew upon thorn, Some moment when the moon was blood Then surely I was born. With monstrous head and sickening cry And ears like errant wings, The devil’s walking parody On all four-footed things. The tattered outlaw of the earth, Of ancient crooked will; Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb, I keep my secret still. Fools! For I also had my hour; One far fierce hour and sweet: There was a shout about my ears, And palms before my feet.

I remember that first time: the empty auditorium, her voice, the dark all around us, her mouth reaching into mine. She was Freddy’s foxy older sister, and I didn’t know why she wanted to kiss me. She had already finished high school and probably shouldn’t have been walking the halls, but she always called me her friend. So one Monday after gym, I found myself beside myself in front of her house—with my trench coat and lunch bag— probably not looking much like Shaft. Inside, the air held warm milk and we talked a bit about her baby    and her Aunt who paid the rent painting cars. Maybe she liked me because we were both black and mostly alone in the suburbs, but I hadn’t thought about that. It was her voice that got me—banked fire, the color of dusk—her voice, and my name was smoke in her mouth. I think about it more than I should now, that January noon—an hour before algebra—how most days I’d be thinking football    or replaying the seventy-some kisses I’d gotten over those lean years, but that day Donna and me were on the couch munching potato chips.Rrruffles have rrridges, she kidded coming from checking the baby who’d slipped into a nap. I was kind of disappointed that we hadn’t done anything, but I needed time to get back to school, so I started to stand. She said wait, look at this mess, and with her left hand, she brushed the crumbs from my lap the way you’d whisk away lint— then, swept over my pants again— to be thorough, I guessed, but slower and then some more, as if her hand were getting    drowsy. You know how sometimes you see something but just can’t believe it—like a squirrel bobbling a biscuit on your kitchen counter or a cricket creeping the red feathers of your mother’s Sunday hat? Her hand there, on my lap, could easily have been a five-fingered flying saucer from the fifth dimension. For awhile, I just watched and wondered if she knew where her hand had landed    but it was me who didn’t know: me with my six dozen kisses and the great Eden of my virginity. How do we not talk about it every day: the ways we were changed by the gift in someone’s touch—your body, suddenly a bright instrument played by an otherwise silent divinity. When I heard my zipper, I couldn’t have said where my arms were    or what a clock was for: I had no idea    I could be such a stranger and still be myself. How could I have known what a girl might do to a boy with her mouth     if she felt like doing what her mouth could do? It was a kind of miracle: the dreamed impossible—my soul finally called to my flesh. I didn’t know what I didn’t know    and then I knew.

O, Benjamin P. Lovell, 19 from Oneonta, New York State who appears in the police blotter in Thursday’s Daily Star for unlawful possession of marijuana. The police blotter hangs just below the cast of Hairpsray rehearsing at the suny oneonta goodrich theater where the girl playing Tracy Turnblad looks as if she’s been helping herself to donuts: maybe the donuts we were eating at Barlow’s General Store, Treadwell. Do you ever get an upstate rush? I’ve never been crazy about donuts but these are the aristocrats of the donut world and I salute them. And I hope, Benjamin, your mom isn’t going to be too mad as she casts her eye down the police blotter and sees your name there,You little shit! and I hope the authorities remember being young when the whole world sometimes seemed somehow like a gargantuan donut that either pulled you to its bosom (O Tracy!) or kicked down — somewhere — to the bloodstream. Sweet donut, do I love thee? I haven’t mentioned Brando K. Goodluck, 18, from Manhattan, charged with seventh-degree criminal possession of a controlled substance. O Brando, O Brando what were you thinking? As I put a donut in my mouth I’m thinking I wouldn’t mind a joint, and, in any case, maybe all these donuts are pretty dangerous and I wonder what would happen if the rules got jumbled up and the girl playing Tracy Turnblad slid down the page and found herself in the police blotter charged with unlawful possession of a donut. Suddenly America feels different and I like it. Police blotters throughout the nation packed with donutheads and half the country on the run as college girls make secret calls and meet their dealers in dusty ghost towns, sweet vapors drifting through the trees. O America, where even the robins are bigger, where every car that slides into the forecourt of Barlow’s General Store is a Dodge, where half the population is chasing the perfect donut. Let’s imagine that Benjamin P. Lovell and Brando K. Goodluck, nice slim boys, who never touched a donut in their lives, wander into Barlow’s and roll a joint and talk about those losers who kneel down before “the big one.” They know the girl who was playing Tracy Turnblad. She was sweet, they say, who went and threw it all away for a sleazy bun with a hole in it. They pass the joint to me and I can feel the donuts I stuffed in haste somewhere down my slacks. I blush. Real shame, I say. Mrs. Barlow says You boys want more coffee? The donuts on her shelves have gone.

The dark that’s gathering strength these days is submissive, kinky, silken, willing; stretched taut as a trampoline. World events rattle by like circus trains we wave at occasionally, as striped, homed and spotted heads poke out their windows. Feels like I’m wearing a corset, though I haven’t a stitch on. Burn the place setting I ate from, OK? and destroy the easy chair I languished in. Let birds unravel my lingerie for nesting materials. Fingers poised on the piano keys, I can’t think what to play. A dirge, a fugue? What, exactly, are crimes against nature

for Robert Duncan It is hard going to the door cut so small in the wall where the vision which echoes loneliness brings a scent of wild flowers in a wood. What I understood, I understand. My mind is sometime torment, sometimes good and filled with livelihood, and feels the ground. But I see the door, and knew the wall, and wanted the wood, and would get there if I could with my feet and hands and mind. Lady, do not banish me for digressions. My nature is a quagmire of unresolved confessions. Lady, I follow. I walked away from myself, I left the room, I found the garden, I knew the woman in it, together we lay down. Dead night remembers. In December we change, not multiplied but dispersed, sneaked out of childhood, the ritual of dismemberment. Mighty magic is a mother, in her there is another issue of fixture, repeated form, the race renewal, the charge of the command. The garden echoes across the room. It is fixed in the wall like a mirror that faces a window behind you and reflects the shadows. May I go now? Am I allowed to bow myself down in the ridiculous posture of renewal, of the insistence of which I am the virtue? Nothing for You is untoward. Inside You would also be tall, more tall, more beautiful. Come toward me from the wall, I want to be with You. So I screamed to You, who hears as the wind, and changes multiply, invariably, changes in the mind. Running to the door, I ran down as a clock runs down. Walked backwards, stumbled, sat down hard on the floor near the wall. Where were You. How absurd, how vicious. There is nothing to do but get up. My knees were iron, I rusted in worship, of You. For that one sings, one writes the spring poem, one goes on walking. The Lady has always moved to the next town and you stumble on after Her. The door in the wall leads to the garden where in the sunlight sit the Graces in long Victorian dresses, of which my grandmother had spoken. History sings in their faces. They are young, they are obtainable, and you follow after them also in the service of God and Truth. But the Lady is indefinable, she will be the door in the wall to the garden in sunlight. I will go on talking forever. I will never get there. Oh Lady, remember me who in Your service grows older not wiser, no more than before. How can I die alone. Where will I be then who am now alone, what groans so pathetically in this room where I am alone? I will go to the garden. I will be a romantic. I will sell myself in hell, in heaven also I will be. In my mind I see the door, I see the sunlight before me across the floor beckon to me, as the Lady’s skirt moves small beyond it.

She never said I’m going to die. I was with her nearly every minute that week, reading, sleeping on the cot beside the high-tech bed that kept shifting her slight weight while the window shadowed over, then grew brighter, and she drifted or got changed or was given another shot. None of us said it, though finally when she was barely talking anymore, I asked something like Mom, are you ready?—I just want Brad to be ok was what she replied. I told her he would be, as if her wish or mine could preside at his sentencing hearing. After that she was almost entirely silent, but when Dad came the last afternoon, edgy without a cigarette, checking over the monitors, Mom said she wanted to see him for a while alone, and he was startled.Pull the door closed, I heard her tell him, and he did. Out in the hall, staring at the pattern of alternating tiles, I thought of Saturday mornings when Brad and I were little, and Dad and Mom’s room would be not just shut for a time, but locked. Secretly I tried the knob once. In that house nobody was allowed to lock a door but Dad. Grandma would shoo us to the TV with cinnamon toast to watch cartoons, one fool panic after the next—bolted dungeons, lies and threats, a saw-blade inching toward the tied-up body. Then real people like us, finally: Roy Rogers saving them with his amazing calm.

An open door says, “Come in.” A shut door says, “Who are you?” Shadows and ghosts go through shut doors. If   a door is shut and you want it shut, why open it? If   a door is open and you want it open, why shut it? Doors forget but only doors know what it is doors forget.