Relic Environments Trilogy: Book III, Part 1.ix

from Book III, Part 1, The Lord of Time, His Curiosity and Galliard

Paladin

(The crowd) wants blood and death…           

                                -Robert “Evel” Knievel, 1938-2007

Across the ancient mirror, blooms of acid

Fixed in these islands, between shadows

A raw heart

The first breath and rawness of dreams

Pale days passing unrecovered, the senses

Blanked to everything but the flawed bell echoing

How else the plain speech of it without sadness

How else the night’s collapse, and morning’s faint sparking   

To appease

A prophecy of dead stars, moving

As a creature moves, calling into the silence

This is the future without us, instead

Of time, a border bound by all the dead

The clock running backwards, pools of light spiralling

Past the crust of galaxies

Where the gods were

*

A box of headlights

And within that box another, and another, each

More deeply hued        

November numb with rain, matryoshka traffic opens south

Forecasts whittled-down to doughy cumulus underlit red

With the far city

Driving through the night, I hear the radio say

Evel is dead

60s daredevil and later

The motorcycle jump across Snake River, a rocket to clear it

*

It’s easy to make comments, assumptions

Facts distorting facts, emotive

Aimed at

The game, Evel Knievel Stunt Master
Thomas J said

I still haven’t beaten the substance missions

I still haven’t found the hidden place in Silent Cartographer

But I can do Evel

There's more, but most aren’t worth the breath

The hahaha of getting your ass owned 

In Prototype Mode, priceless, yeah
And pretty hard, especially this version of souped-up

Eternal Darkness

You have to get all the effects

Wembley ‘75, London buses side by side for Evel sailing  over

When he hit the ramp his bones went

Bang

A prophecy of dead stars, moving

Thomas J and Vada, riding their bikes on Vada’s drive

Thomas J springs his feet off the pedals and Vada says

Oh wow, a real Evel Knievel

Is that the only way it can be remembered 

*

Snake River

Evel remembered

I didn’t even think I had a fifty-fifty, everyone

Said to me don’t do it

But I wanted to keep my word

I climbed up and got strapped in, when

I punched that Power button I thought God, here I come

I always said when the canyon jump comes

If I miss it I'll get somewhere quicker where you're all going Someday

When the Sky-Cycle launched, the parachute opened

Too soon, the headwinds blowing Evel

Back into the canyon

He crashed six hundred feet below

By the waters of the Snake

Twelve thousand people trampling fences

To get to the edge, to see what’s going down

To see what they’d remember

Evel climbs out of the rocket, walked away

The first breath and rawness

Of dreams

*

In 1895, crowd-psychologist Gustave Le Bon wrote

Isolated, a man may be a cultivated individual

In a crowd he is a barbarian

*

‘Yosemite’ Sam Radoff, still out the ten grand

Evel owed him

The bounced cheque, the legal trouble, date back years

Sam built a custom bike for the stunt king

Detroit, the 70s, Evel shows up at the shop                     
A real showman, all furs and jewellery    

Kids follow him everywhere

Sam said, we had a judgment against him

I called him before the Snake River jump, and said

My lawyer’s going to stop the jump

If you don't do something with me real soon

Sam and Evel met up in a bar

Evel had a contract for Snake River

Eight million bucks

He passed it round

Lost it later boozing, somebody said

Then accused Sam of taking it

Downhill from there

Sam said
Pale days passing unrecovered

Sam said

He and Evel had a deal

Sam could use the bike he built for Evel, for Sam’s own shows

Sam said, Evel called me from Jackie Gleason's, said

You can't use the bike

They sued, then settled, Sam’s ten grand

Dated June ’74

Sam said, Evel knew it was dud paper
But his fame was where everything

He touched, he wanted something of it, instead

Of time, a border bound by all the dead

*

Sam said

I'm just a little guy at the bottom of the food chain
I paint flames on bikes

I'm an artist

I don’t want to end up bagging Big Macs

Sam never told anybody about the money

The faint sparking to appease

*

Then Evel died

*

Le Bon found crowds tap

The unconscious

Sam said

I never minded about the dough

Hell, he said, Evel was a hero

Climbing in the rocket to clear Snake River

That day, walking through the parking lot

Pools of light spiralling

Evel wore the white jump suit, across his chest

The blue-X, harness effect, strung

With stars                    

You know the one

Relic Environments Trilogy: Book III, Part 1.viii

from Book III, Part 1, The Lord of Time, His Curiosity and Galliard

The Journeyman’s Tale

For this ye knowen also wel as I,

Whoso shal telle a tale after a man,

He moot reherce as ny as evere he can

Everich a word, if it be in his charge

Al specke he never so rudeliche or large

Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe,

Or feyne thynge, or fynde wordes newe.

                                                    − Chaucer, Canterbury Tales

                                                    “The General Prologue”, ll. 732-738

Part the First, in which Our Hero renews an Acquaintance, observes

a Mechanical Device, and considers the Consequences of Pride

I was in Florida with Earl

Who showed up one day from back home

Lookin for a job

We was drivin along in my old Pontiac

When out of the blue he says to me

Did you shag my wife too

So first I thought whaddayameantoo

Then told him yeah, but only

Because she asked

He seemed okay with that, and we stopped

And had a beer and talked about the new Clapton

We both liked a lot

Earl always said he would die

Gettin smashed by a Diamond Rio cement mixer

It’s a funny thing

But we saw one down in West Palm

Or maybe Boca, and I mean man they are huge

I mean the guy drivin

Looked like a fuckin ant 

Anyways

Earl and me was workin on the new condos

And this little fucker drivin the Rio comes up to the foreman

Says he’d only do this and that and nothin else

Or his union’d have ever’body out

Just for askin

About half hour later we was on a break

Lookin over the top storey balcony, when we see

A girl on a bench in some bushes

Goin down on this driver

And we holler scab scab and the girl looked straight up

Eighteen fuckin storeys

Put her hands together over her head and did this

Rocky thing

Big champ and all

Great, but the guy was not fuckin amused

About three some guy said to us

You guys on strike and we said what the fuck, he said

Nah the painters are out because of the electricians

Because of the Diamond Rio guy

So we walked over to the beach

And this truck fuckin monster machine

Zillion tons of cement not rollin round

Was on its side sunk in the sand

It was like a fuckin whale and ever’body runnin

Sayin what the fuck what the fuck and this driver

Who was about five foot nothin

Cry cry cry cry cry

I never saw Earl again after that

That was in ’73

I woulda stayed on, but the foreman’s stepson

Needed work, so they fucked me off

I’ve had worse jobs

Part the Second, in which Our Hero practices the Art of Courtship, and receives a Communication 

of Hazards to the Travelling Public

I was seein this big redhead called Noreen

I had a little place off Ocean Park

And she rented rooms upstairs

She had a big ass and huge tits, man

Nothin like those skinnyass girls in the magazines

She could wear the hell out of a dress but looked

Totally odd in jeans

Go fuckin figure

The first time she come down, I said

D’ya want a drink

And she said sure okay, and we had a beer

Then I go over where she was sittin, reach round

And untie the bow holdin up her top

And out come these huge milkin tits

Well let me say I was on those fuckers like yesterday

And she just laughed a little and sipped her beer

And that was kinda our first date

The next time she come down, a couple of nights later

She said how come you don’t take me out dancin

Or somewhere, and I just fuckin laughed

And said have you seen your tits

Then kept her ass-up till breakfast

This ain’t nothin to do with Noreen

Or her beautiful tits or her awesome red bush

It all just come to mind

While I was thinkin about Henry, my pal from school

I had this phone call from home, and my Ma says

In the middle of talkin about absolutely fuckin nothin

Did you hear Henry got killed

I thought I ain’t heard her right, but then I did

Anyways, the thing is he was with his girl friend 

They was drivin through Georgia

Right on the Interstate, and this truck

Drives right up the back of him blowin his horn

And Henry pulls over and this guy pulls over

Then Henry says to this girl I’m talkin to this guy

So off he goes, and the girl’s tunin music on the FM

And then looks up, and here’s Henry, walkin back

With the most amazed look on his face

Only he’s soaked in blood

Right down to the belt, and then she sees a big grin

Carved right across his throat, I mean he’s gone to have a word

And this cunt’s only gone and cut him ear to ear

The guy in the truck takes off down the road

And Henry is absolutely fuckin dead

So now the state cops are after this knife guy

And the knife guy’s old man hears it on the radio

And the description of the guy and the truck

Because it’s his fuckin truck

So he takes a big ass iron bar and drags the sonfabitch

Outside the house

And proceeds to beat the livin shit out of him

Then he calls the cops, and so the cops

Are draggin this cunt away, and the old man yells after him

I told you never touch my fuckin truck

I’m hangin up the phone and Noreen comes in

Who’s Henry she says, and out nowhere I hear myself say

This dead guy I know

Part the Third, wherein a Confrontation is avoided,

and Our Hero learns of a Commercial Opportunity

Pat and Jonno picked me up as usual that mornin

Drivin along havin a few drinks

On the way to the job

This place Bobby sent us was way the fuck out in the sticks

But it was a good day and we only had a few walls

To paint before the floor guys came out, so we thought

We’d make it last long enough and maybe

Hit the bars in West Palm on the way back

We drive away from the coast

And nothin but a roadhouse and a few palms

But we stopped in this roadhouse for a beer

And some cunt next to Pat fuckin spits on the floor

So Pat starts up and we drag him out because

This cunt’s one big fucker

A while later we finally see this place

Some guy from Miami decides to buy up all this land

Smack in the middle of nowhere

And gets Bobby to give him a price for fixin it up

But we ain’t seen nothin but cattle sheds

Fifty years old, but Bobby had us on

Top wage so what the fuck

A while later and some old fart wanders over

And says to me and Jonno, I guess you fellers

From Orlando, so we say nah West Palm

And he says that figures

Well Jonno looks at me and I look at him

And who knows where the hell Pat got to

But this guy says to us yeah they don’t want no companies

Orlando way to have a sniff just yet, and we think

What the fuck

Well this guy has got us real inter’sted

And knows it, so we say

We ain’t scabbin no union job and he says nah

It’s fuckin Mickey Mouse, dumb ass

Turns out this Miami guy gets the low down

Disney wants to put a place in the ass end of Florida

So he buys up land from any fool rancher

For fuckin zero, paints a few cow sheds

For improvements, and gets a zillion bucks

From Uncle Walt for cowshit and sand

On the way back we’re tellin Pat

And he says (get this) he says yeah

That Minnie has beautiful fuckin eyes

Part the Fourth, wherein Heavenly Music is heard, and

a Wise Woman reveals the Resting Place1 of Heroes

I moved out back of Peggy’s to get away from Noreen

Peggy’s place was one of these old barns

Built about 1900

When all the assholes come down from up East

And the place I had was the summer house

It was real comfy

I didn’t have no work a few months after the Arabs

Put the kibosh on the oil, so I did a few jobs for Peggy

To help out for rent

Peggy must have been over eighty

And had two little poms

And both those little bastards were blind, but still followed

Her ever’where, and her talkin to em all the time

About fuck knows what

In the 20s she and her old man

Used to do the clubs in Palm Beach

Then come back over here with Hoagy Carmichael

And a few of the boys to play some jazz and drink gin

My Ma used to like Hoagy, but I never heard

Much of his stuff

I sure liked Peggy though

She was from Tennessee, and when she found out

Where I was from we got on real good

She had a bed upstairs that never looked much

It had a rope slung mattress, fuckin bed

Must have been out of the Ark, only she sees me

Lookin it over and says, Andrew Jackson slept in that bed

No fuckin way I said

Yep, she says, big as life and ugly with it

She says it come down to her through her great granny

And was worth a little somethin

And gives me this wink

So I says d’ya think great granny would mind me

Havin a sit down

And Peggy says nah go on

The mattress was horsehair and lumpy as hell

And had this totally fucked smell comin off it

But I never mentioned nothin

Because you could tell it was a big thing with her

I met Peggy’s daughter once, thirty five, not bad lookin

But she gives me this who the fuck are you look

So I never said much to her

You could tell she was just itchin to get her hands

On Peggy’s place

That old house cost nothin to run

And was worth a mil, even back then

I reckon she thought I was makin up to Peggy

For a piece of the action

I used to get a card from Peggy now and then

After I left West Palm for a union gang up north

But then nothin

I reckon she just fuckin died

And honest to God, to this day

I’m real careful like, layin on Ol’ Hickory’s bed

__________________________________________

1In her upstairs room, the old bed

under-slung to take the horsehair mattress:

that bed, she said, I brought from Tennessee

nineteen twenty-six. My wedding dress

was Mother’s, my married life contented.

I still miss my family.

Ragged flowers decorate the quilt…

her great grandma, not twenty, masked

a bored look, sewing: Jackson, longcoat and collar star,

his horse pulled lame, at the porch asked

for water, old wounds troubling, sword hilt

bright from duty in the Blackhawk War.

We sat playing cards, the night hot,

on the table a jug of margarita… Jackson was mean

what with the talk about his wife: he killed a man

in eighteen-six, Dickinson

his name was, a lawyer and a crack shot −

but rushed his luck, missed, Jackson so thin…

The General rode on, up country a pace,

to a cabin near Red River. A Negro

brought milk, then saw the blood that filled his shoe.

Dickinson had winged him sure, a rib shot, low.

His friends help him down, his face

was stone, Dickinson dead and never knew.

Relic Environments Trilogy: Book III, Part 1.vii

from Book III, Part 1, The Lord of Time, His Curiosity and Galliard 

The Ruined Cottage

Had the gate not led to roofless stones

Had the stones not shouldered the lintel

Had the flocks not stitched the slopes

Had shadow not stained the tumulus

Had the hawk not pivoted from its height

Had the hawthorn not split the rock

Had the child not stood in the doorway

Had the child’s dark eyes not drowned the valley

Had the lake below not silvered in mist

Had we not stepped through the doorway

Through the cold grace of granite, in our ascent

Relic Environments Trilogy: Book III, Part 1.vi

from Book III, Part 1, The Lord of Time, His Curiosity and Galliard

Ex Cathedra

Beyond St Catherine’s Hill, the river

sluices through the city, channels

Romans cut

dividing the Itchen into die-straight races,

and beyond, surrounding the Cathedral, water meadows,

a roebuck there glimpsed midair,

then again invisible into briar

and scrub elm.

Across the sunken fields − plague pits, perhaps,

or plough roads the centuries abandoned −

the near distance reveals

a clutter of salvation, stone-cut saints

in arcs of masonry above the crypts.

Bones in painted boxes, the Lady Chapel’s worn geometry,

the steepling stairs, the upper room

and Gospels

fiery under glass − faith’s a dusty business, low-lit, these kells

the preserve of white-gloved keepers,

anon illuminations

except the epithets, Master of the Genesis Initial,

Master of the Leaping Figures.

The saved dead

thread the margins, anchored in the inks −

a commonplace of wombs confirmed, that

the beating of the heart begins

before its chambers form.

The musicians prepare for evening service.

The Wykehamists, and Pilgrim School scholars,

they too, prepare, the timpani readied −

outside, discreet black Saabs

through streets

the Romans engineered.

The meadows drain into a river

with no memory of itself, tricked long since

from its true course, forgetful still

by the ruined mill, the wider spaces

claimed by garrisons.

Along the banks, in weir spray,

a smudge of wren

evaporates through ferns.