Peter Krumbach ~ Five Pieces

The Word Problem Effect

When a rain­drop begins to descend from the height of one mile over York, Pennsylvania, it is four o’clock in the after­noon. The drop is gray blue, par­tial­ly magen­ta. At the same time in Lexington, Kentucky, train A leaves the sta­tion head­ing west. In its din­ing car, seat­ed at a small square table by the first win­dow, proc­tol­o­gist Edwin Potts observes his nap­kin. It is sev­en o’clock in Coeur D’Alene, Idaho, when at the alti­tude of two miles a snowflake is formed. Seventeen-hun­dred-and-eight struc­ture beams com­prise its white fil­i­gree. The wind is steady from north east at twelve-point-six knots. Directly below it, four bus­es (B, C, D & F) depart in var­i­ous direc­tions. One car­ries pas­sen­gers, the remain­ing three stacked with man­nequins. Their des­ti­na­tions lie at thir­ty-degree incre­ments from one anoth­er, start­ing with due north, con­tin­u­ing counter-clock­wise (when per­ceived from the van­tage of the flake). The engi­neer of the Kentucky train (A), Ricardo Goldscheib, (blood type A+), has just applied ten mil­ligrams of Preparation H to his itch. If two white goats, com­mu­ni­cat­ing with each oth­er through a series of pelvic nudges and bleats, walk along Interstate 110, head­ing towards San Pedro, California, the female being two inch­es taller than the male, and Cindy Lauper (no rela­tion to the singer) dri­ves her Toyota Corolla in the oppo­site direc­tion while tex­ting her beau (blood type AB-) in La Junta, Colorado, what is, on a scale from 0 to 7, the chance of all the above to affect the flight of a sin­gle pur­ple mar­tin, age 4?

~

The Lesson

               —for A.S. and M.S.

Don’t get me wrong. I love evening strolls. Avery, my petite 93-year-old philoso­pher neigh­bor, his wife Mildred, and me. Stepping slow­ly. Down the dark­en­ing walk. Avery repeat­ed­ly ask­ing how I’m doing. Mildred, a 91-year-old medieval his­to­ri­an, nar­rat­ing exhaus­tive­ly, speak­ing with pre­ci­sion. “In fact,” the recur­ring phrase. I men­tion the log­ic of prov­i­dence. Avery, chortling, brings up David Hume. He ambles between Mildred and me, and as he mus­es on Hume’s prob­lem of induc­tion, he begins to pass wind. The vol­ume is remark­able. I look at Mildred. Not a hint of acknowl­edge­ment. Does she think it’s me and is being polite? She can’t be hard of hear­ing; it’s always been Avery ask­ing “Come again?” Does she know it is him and no longer flinch­es? He keeps walk­ing, shift­ing to Frege’s the­o­ry of sense and deno­ta­tion. As he does, anoth­er round of flat­u­lence. I’m try­ing to focus on what he’s stat­ing. As we stop for a moment, his fart­ing esca­lates to such an alarm­ing pitch, I’m begin­ning to fear the worst. Mildred grows qui­et, her eyes point­ed straight up at the emerg­ing stars of Seven Sisters. Avery restarts his stroll, switch­ing to Wittgenstein. Now the flat­u­lence is almost con­stant, as if encour­aged by his speech. I can’t hear half of his words. Mildred keeps study­ing the sky, her silence adding more promi­nence to the blasts. I can no longer fol­low, able to mere­ly offer “yes” or “I see,” glanc­ing side­ways at Avery’s pants. He talks of Karl Marx now, I think. We’re on our way back, approach­ing my house. A woman strid­ing in the oppo­site direc­tion pass­es and glares at me through the noise. We reach my front door. I bid them good evening and fum­ble with keys. From the thresh­old I watch the slow van­ish­ing, their hands joined now, the gray heads like two moths enter­ing a mine.

 ~

Telegram from the New World

ONLY FIVE DEATHSJOURNEY CALMGOD KINDBRIEF GOAT STAMPEDE IN AFT HOLDDOCTOR TIPSYUNCLE BOR INJUREDMILD HUMPED MAN FROM SICILY GIFTS OLIVESMANY SMELLS AND CARD GAMESPOLISH CHILD PECKED BY PELICANSHORTAGE OF LIMESBEFRIENDED CAPTAIN —  SHOWED ME HIS GLASS EYESUGGESTED MARRIAGEMOST POTATOES ROTTENWORMS IN OATSSKY FOUR TIMES HIGHER THAN BACK HOMELADIES IN BLACKDULCIMERSPRIEST IN CROW’S NESTBOHEMIANS POINTING AT WHALESNEW WORDSDREAM OF PASSENGER’S HATRUSSIAN COBBLER CAUGHT FEEDING RATSFIGHT WITH FIRST OFFICERTWELVE DAYS NO STORMNEW WORLD HARBORCARRIAGES ON QUAYLARGE MEN STAMPING MANIFESTS — I MUST SIGNNEW NAMENEW NAMENEW NAMETHREE TIMESBREAD WITH ONIONSDOGS AND HORSES TALLER THAN BACK HOMEHOUSES OF STEELBEAUTIFUL DINCOPPER COINSSOOTWIDE STREETS LINED WITH DUNGRAPID CARTSFEVERBUY FIRST MEALCABBAGE AND SPUDSTHINK OF YOU BEFORE SLEEPWILL YOU COMETHIS IS MY NEW NAMEELIZABETH

Foxwhelp

I ordered a Foxwhelp. I meant no offense. No rea­son for the maître d’ to slide so quick­ly to our table and hiss like a straight razor on a cheek. My calves lost sen­sa­tion, and every­one was siz­ing my lips. So, again, I said I’ll have a Foxwhelp. When the clenched-jaw own­er arrived, I watched your father unbut­ton his frock, and your stepmother’s fin­ger­tips find her tem­ples. Two bus­boys began rolling up the car­pet next to us and some­how I noticed the for­eign­ers at the cor­ner booth hold­ing high above their heads a long iri­des­cent fish. I turned to you, but your eyes stud­ied the ceil­ing fres­cos. When the chef’s banana-fin­gers land­ed by my plate, the numb­ness had spread from the calves all the way to my groin. I am a decent man, I thought, a man who reads four papers, sham­poos your pussy, and grooms your pugs. A man whose trans­gres­sions had long been expunged, all his chick­ens hatched. So why the sirens? Why the cuffs and the buz­z­cut cop palm­ing my skull, fold­ing me into the cage of his cruiser?

~

The Problem with Truth

Inside the gold­en-yel­low sheen of anger that drapes over chairs, lamps, and the gnomes out­side the win­dow, I lis­ten to my wife and foot by foot enter the house of void. I feel the way a for­got­ten sta­di­um in the mid­dle of a jun­gle does, vines wrap­ping the pun­gent mist into irreg­u­lar lumps. I advance through the hall. No fur­ni­ture any­where, only the scent of coconut mon­keys who have cho­sen the bed­room clos­et to sleep with their toy peb­bles. My wife is repeat­ing some­thing and I nod, yet I am stand­ing alone, shoes in a slight V below my brief­case, hang­ing from my shoul­ders a suit jack­et, but the pants and under­wear are gone, free­ing my south to the breeze from the west. I know, I say. The twins we don’t yet have are asleep, match­ing paja­mas, plas­tic rifles, the dum­my’s head chewed off by the dog. But this is not true. I do not have a wife, the chil­dren have beards and are old­er than me, which would mean I’m clos­ing in on some­thing. This is what hap­pens at board meet­ings each Monday, Larry stands and points at the white board, and shit begins to fly.

~

Peter Krumbach was born in Brno, Czechoslovakia. After grad­u­at­ing with a degree in visu­al arts, he left the coun­try, and even­tu­al­ly found his way to the U.S. He worked in com­mer­cial art (New York), and lat­er as a trans­la­tor and broad­cast­er (Washington, D.C.). His most recent work has been or is about to be pub­lished in Hobart, Okay Donkey, Wigleaf and X‑R-A‑Y. He lives in California.