Edward Taylor

I take the long walk up the staircase to my secret room. Today's big news: they found Amelia Earhart's shoe, size 9. 1992: Charlie Christian is bebopping at Minton's in 1941. Today, the Presidential primaries have failed us once again. We'll look for our excitement elsewhere, in the last snow that is falling, in tomorrow's Gospel Concert in Springfield. It's a good day to be a cat and just sleep. Or to read the Confessions of Saint Augustine. Jesus called the sons of Zebedee the Sons of Thunder. In my secret room, plans are hatched: we'll explore the Smoky Mountains. Then we'll walk along a beach: Hallelujah! (A letter was just delivered by Overnight Express-- it contained nothing of importance, I slept through it.) (I guess I'm trying to be "above the fray.") The Russians, I know, have developed a language called "Lincos" designed for communicating with the inhabitants of other worlds. That's been a waste of time, not even a postcard. But then again, there are tree-climbing fish, called anabases. They climb the trees out of stupidity, or so it is said. Who am I to judge? I want to break out of here. A bee is not strong in geometry: it cannot tell a square from a triangle or a circle. The locker room of my skull is full of panting egrets. I'm saying that strictly for effect. In time I will heal, I know this, or I believe this. The contents and furnishings of my secret room will be labeled and organized so thoroughly it will be a little frightening. What I thought was infinite will turn out to be just a couple of odds and ends, a tiny miscellany, miniature stuff, fragments of novelties, of no great moment. But it will also be enough, maybe even more than enough, to suggest an immense ritual and tradition. And this makes me very happy.

All night a door floated down the river. It tried to remember little incidents of pleasure from its former life, like the time the lovers leaned against it kissing for hours and whispering those famous words. Later, there were harsh words and a shoe was thrown and the door was slammed. Comings and goings by the thousands, the early mornings and late nights, years, years. O they've got big plans, they'll make a bundle. The door was an island that swayed in its sleep. The moon turned the doorknob just slightly, burned its fingers and ran, and still the door said nothing and slept. At least that's what they like to say, the little fishes and so on. Far away, a bell rang, and then a shot was fired.

This is the hardest part: When I came back to life I was a good family dog and not too friendly to strangers. I got a thirty-five dollar raise in salary, and through the pea-soup fogs I drove the General, and introduced him at rallies. I had a totalitarian approach and was a massive boost to his popularity. I did my best to reduce the number of people. The local bourgeoisie did not exist. One of them was a mystic and walked right over me as if I were a bed of hot coals. This is par for the course- I will be employing sundry golf metaphors henceforth, because a dog, best friend and chief advisor to the General, should. While dining with the General I said, "Let's play the back nine in a sacred rage. Let's tee-off over the foredoomed community and putt ourselves thunderously, touching bottom." He drank it all in, rugged and dusky. I think I know what he was thinking. He held his automatic to my little head and recited a poem about my many weaknesses, for which I loved him so.

Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been dream- ing so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was it? A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled back, skin falling off. But he wasn't afraid of that. It was a beau- tiful day. How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind if I do. Take a little ride on my donkey, I love that donkey. Hell, I love everybody.