Page 44 - Jack Foley | The true litterateur
P. 44

And now that I’m older and very well read
             It often occurs when I’m going to bed
             That I wonder what could she have meant when she said
             In a voice that might easily waken the dead
             In a tone that was hollow and heavy as lead
             With a tremor that filled me with Infinite Dread

             (There were so many things she might speak of instead!)
             But she grasped at a bundle of freshly picked phlox
             And whispered obliquely, The subject is rocks.


             East Oakland’s Eastmont Mall. Eleven p.m., papers strewn everywhere. As I
             drive by the liquor store in my car I notice two men who seem to be confronting
             each other. One of them stands in front of the open liquor store. In his hands
             he holds an enormous rifle. The other is seated on a motorcycle. He is driving
             the motorcycle (as violently as he can) in small circles before the man with the
             rifle. Everything seems violent, open, uncertain. I pass by—




              [The two voices end at exactly the same time. There is a moment

              of silence before the concluding lines are spoken.]


             articulation of sound—
                memory in the
                                     “ear”—
                                                 a substitution
                of the
                         “audible”
                                       for
                                           the
                                                “visible”—




             to write this day
             to insist
                        upon it—











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