James Tate

Do you have adequate oxen for the job? No, my oxen are inadequate. Well, how many oxen would it take to do an adequate job? I would need ten more oxen to do the job adequately. I'll see if I can get them for you. I'd be obliged if you could do that for me. Certainly. And do you have sufficient fishcakes for the men? We have fifty fishcakes, which is less than sufficient. I'll have them delivered on the morrow. Do you need maps of the mountains and the underworld? We have maps of the mountains but we lack maps of the underworld. Of course you lack maps of the underworld, there are no maps of the underworld. And, besides, you don't want to go there, it's stuffy. I had no intention of going there, or anywhere for that matter. It's just that you asked me if I needed maps. . . . Yes, yes, it's my fault, I got carried away. What do you need, then, you tell me? We need seeds, we need plows, we need scythes, chickens, pigs, cows, buckets and women. Women? We have no women. You're a sorry lot, then. We are a sorry lot, sir. Well, I can't get you women. I assumed as much, sir. What are you going to do without women, then? We will suffer, sir. And then we'll die out one by one. Can any of you sing? Yes, sir, we have many fine singers among us. Order them to begin singing immediately. Either women will find you this way or you will die comforted. Meanwhile busy yourselves with the meaningful tasks you have set for yourselves. Sir, we will not rest until the babes arrive.

O sleepy city of reeling wheelchairs where a mouse can commit suicide if he can concentrate long enough on the history book of rodents in this underground town of electrical wheelchairs! The girl who is always pregnant and bruised like a pear rides her many-stickered bicycle backward up the staircase of the abandoned trolleybarn. Yesterday was warm. Today a butterfly froze in midair; and was plucked like a grape by a child who swore he could take care of it. O confident city where the seeds of poppies pass for carfare, where the ordinary hornets in a human’s heart may slumber and snore, where bifocals bulge in an orange garage of daydreams, we wait in our loose attics for a new season as if for an ice-cream truck. An Indian pony crosses the plains whispering Sanskrit prayers to a crater of fleas. Honeysuckle says: I thought I could swim. The Mayor is urinating on the wrong side of the street! A dandelion sends off sparks: beware your hair is locked! Beware the trumpet wants a glass of water! Beware a velvet tabernacle! Beware the Warden of Light has married an old piece of string!

She was in terrible pain the whole day, as she had been for months: a slipped disc, and there is nothing more painful. She herself was a nurse’s aide, also a poet just beginning to make a name for her nom de plume. As with most things in life, it happened when she was changing channels on her television. The lucky man, on the other hand, was smiling for the first time in his life, and it was fake. He was an aspiring philosopher of dubious potential, very serious, but somehow lacking in essential depth. He could have been an adequate undertaker. It was not the first time for either of them. It was a civil service, with no music, few flowers. Still, there was a slow and erratic tide of champagne—corks shot clear into the trees. And flashcubes, instant photos, some blurred and some too revealing, cake slices that aren’t what they were meant to be. The bride slept through much of it, and never did we figure out who was on whose team. I think the groom meant it in the end when he said, “We never thought anyone would come.” We were not the first to arrive, nor the last to leave. Who knows, it may all turn out for the best. And who really cares about such special days, they are not what we live for.

A vagabond is a newcomer in a heap of trouble. He’s an eyeball at a peephole that should be electrocuted. He’s a leper in a textile mill and likely to be beheaded, I mean, given a liverwurst sandwich on the break by the brook where the loaves are sliced. But he oughtn’t meddle with the powder puffs on the golf links— they have their own goats to tame, dirigibles to situate. He can act like an imbecile if the climate is propitious, a magnate of kidnap paradising around the oily depot, or a speck from a distant nebula wishing to purchase a certain skyscraper .... Well, if it’s permitted, then let’s regulate him, let’s testify against his thimble, and moderate his gloves before they sew an apron. The local minister is thinking of moving to Holland, exchanging his old ballads for some lingerie. “Zatso!” says the vagabond. Homeless, like wheat that tattletales on the sermon, like wages swigged. “Zatso, zatso, zatso!” cries the vagabond. The minister reels under the weight of his thumbs, the vagabond seems to have jutted into his kernel, disturbed his terminal core. Slowly, and with trifling dignity, the minister removes from his lapel his last campaign button: Don’t Mess with Raymond, New Hampshire.

And what amazes me is that none of our modern inventions surprise or interest him, even a little. I tell him it is time he got his booster shots, but then I realize I have no power over him whatsoever. He becomes increasingly light-footed until I lose sight of him downtown between the federal building and the post office. A registered nurse is taking her coffee break. I myself needed a break, so I sat down next to her at the counter. "Don't mind me," I said, "I'm just a hungry little Gnostic in need of a sandwich." (This old line of mine had met with great success on any number of previous occasions.) I thought, a deaf, dumb, and blind nurse, sounds ideal! But then I remembered that some of the earliest Paleolithic office workers also feigned blindness when approached by nonoffice workers, so I paid my bill and disappeared down an alley where I composed myself. Amidst the piles of outcast citizenry and burning barrels of waste and rot, the plump rats darting freely, the havoc of blown newspapers, lay the little shroud of my lost friend: small and gray and threadbare, windworn by the ages of scurrying hither and thither, battered by the avalanches and private tornadoes of just being a gnome, but surely there were good times, too. And now, rejuvenated by the wind, the shroud moves forward, hesitates, dances sideways, brushes my foot as if for a kiss, and flies upward, whistling a little-known ballad about the pitiful, raw etiquette of the underworld.

I was chasing this blue butterfly down the road when a car came by and clipped me. It was nothing serious, but it angered me and I turned around and cursed the driver who didn't even slow down to see if I was hurt. Then I returned my attention to the butterfly which was nowhere to be seen. One of the Doubleday girls came running up the street with her toy poodle toward me. I stopped her and asked, "Have you seen a blue butterfly around here?" "It's down near that birch tree near Grandpa's," she said. "Thanks," I said, and walked briskly toward the tree. It was fluttering from flower to flower in Mr. Doubleday's extensive garden, a celestial blueness to soothe the weary heart. I didn't know what I was doing there. I certain- ly didn't want to capture it. It was like something I had known in another life, even if it was only in a dream, I wanted to confirm it. I was a blind beggar on the streets of Cordoba when I first saw it, and now, again it was here.

My beloved little billiard balls, my polite mongrels, edible patriotic plums, you owe your beauty to your mother, who resembled a cyclindrical corned beef with all the trimmings, may God rest her forsaken soul, for it is all of us she forsook; and I shall never forget her sputtering embers, and then the little mound. Yes, my little rum runners, she had defective tear ducts and could weep only iced tea. She had petticoats beneath her eyelids. And in her last years she found ball bearings in her beehive puddings, she swore allegiance to Abyssinia. What should I have done? I played the piano and scrambled eggs. I had to navigate carefully around her brain’s avalanche lest even a decent finale be forfeited. And her beauty still evermore. You see, as she was dying, I led each of you to her side, one by one she scorched you with her radiance. And she is ever with us in our acetylene leisure. But you are beautiful, and I, a slave to a heap of cinders.

Someone called in a report that she had seen a man painting in the dark over by the pond. A police car was dispatched to go in- vestigate. The two officers with their big flashlights walked all around the pond, but found nothing suspicious. Hatcher was the younger of the two, and he said to Johnson, "What do you think he was painting?" Johnson looked bemused and said, "The dark, stupid. What else could he have been painting?" Hatcher, a little hurt, said, "Frogs in the Dark, Lily- pads in the Dark, Pond in the Dark. Just as many things exist in the dark as they do in the light." Johnson paused, exasperated. Then Hatcher added, "I'd like to see them. Hell, I might even buy one. Maybe there's more out there than we know. We are the police, after- all. We need to know."

I like to see doctors cough. What kind of human being would grab all your money just when you're down? I'm not saying they enjoy this: "Sorry, Mr. Rodriguez, that's it, no hope! You might as well hand over your wallet." Hell no, they'd rather be playing golf and swapping jokes about our feet. Some of them smoke marijuana and are alcoholics, and their moral turpitude is famous: who gets to see most sex organs in the world? Not poets. With the hours they keep they need drugs more than anyone. Germ city, there's no hope looking down those fire-engine throats. They're bound to get sick themselves sometime; and I happen to be there myself in a high fever taking my plastic medicine seriously with the doctors, who are dying.

Although the depiction of living forms was not explicitly forbidden, the only good news about famines was that the station was empty. It was about 2 A.M. The truck drove away. A tropical insect that lives in enormous cities stroked my hair awkwardly, organizing everyone's schedule. She drove me back to my hotel in a misty and allusive style, while the old schools continued the process of devolution. Part of the roof was loose and flapped noisily in the wind, who needed work like that? Poor brethren, do you have any good prose yet? The New Chinese fiction is getting better, I suspect, people walking and thinking and fussing, with a nest to fly out of, with a less intimate footing. Are we responsible for their playtimes? Keep up your music, my dears; there were a lot of people like that, with strange eyes, green fields and orchards. The little house they sat in produced simple people, cars full of blood, all they needed was a hat, extramusical sounds, purging the emotions. Expect no mercy, I said, from the sickbay. And try to imagine Howard Hughes piloting the plane that flew Cary Grant and Barbara Hutton off toward their marriage in 1950. Well, don't bother. The New Chinese fiction shouldn't concern itself with anything other than a stolen turnip and a coldness in the heart, and a lit window, a young man on a horse appearing and then disappearing.