The Clip
You have just buried your second dog. The afternoon is getting sticky. You put the spade back in the garage, kick off the boots and pour yourself two fingers of Gordon’s. You sit down and listen to the neighbor’s guard geese. Are they considered waterfowl? You sip and click on your phone. The man on the video is bearded and stout, dressed as a hunter. The voice is clear, accurate, almost academic, somewhat at odds with his camouflage apparel. He stands in a windowless room, possibly a basement. On the card table before him lie three dead bodies. A duck, a goose, and a swan. The birds are arranged according to size, each lightly soiled with what appears to be either dirt or dried blood. The long necks are neatly folded and the man points out their varying number of vertebrae, his thick hands sinking into the feathered belly of each lifeless torso he describes. His delivery has a tranquil, soothing timbre that gives the scene a psychedelic air. He defines the difference in body volume and outlines the shade variations between males and females. By the wall behind him, you can see a large refrigerator, a tall cylinder of rolled-up linoleum, and exposed steam pipes with suspended hooks holding a crossbow, a bathrobe, a shower hose and a gas mask. He never mentions whether the animals were killed for the purpose of this presentation, for food, or for pleasure. He concludes the one-minute-thirty-four-second video by expressing hope the viewers enjoyed the clip. You finish your drink. The rosewood outside shivers in the breeze. The thought occurs to you that perhaps the movers and shakers people keep searching for in outer space have been all this time right here. You begin to revisit the idea of getting another dog.
~
Douglas
I indulged myself in the feeling of looseness—breathing with purpose, panning slowly across their faces, imagining I was a wolf looking at other wolves. A certain fondness spread over me. It wasn’t a robbery. Not an assault, either. They appeared to be in a kind of fever, stripping me of my slacks, passing them around, snapping pictures. Who or what runs the theater inside the head? How does the unexpected happen? It turns out they had mistaken me for an influencer named Douglas. That was, at least, the version their attorney later conveyed to the sergeant, infusing the precinct with an air of reverence. Even the interrogator took a break from questioning to comb the upper part of his hair. It was toward midnight that the officers sat us down around a long metal table. I said I didn’t want to press charges. They pointed where to sign and before we all left, the sergeant brought out a small tray to show us what looked like someone’s liver.
~
Mathematical Sister
There’s a man who runs backwards through our block. My sister claims he may be running on a Mobius strip. She compares this to moving along a band of non-orientable surface within which one cannot distinguish clockwise from counterclockwise. It is true that with every pass by our stoop, the man’s left eye appears to be his right, the right foot his left, even his mole migrating from one cheek to the other. If the man continues with his pattern, my sister predicts it is only a matter of time before the Mobius strip loses its boundaries and becomes a so-called Klein bottle, whose topology folds onto itself. My question is: Will we still recognize him? If he enters a four-dimensional polyhedral Mobius, she says, we might perceive him as an origami flexagon. It is close to five-thirty in the afternoon. It shouldn’t be long before the man emerges again at the end of 14th Street. The August air quivers on the blacktop. We sit out front and sip spiked Cokes. How peculiar—we’re genetically linked, yet I’ve always been much dimmer than my sister.
~
The Tiny House
It was not much bigger than a parking attendant’s hut. The sight of us all, packed into this luminous cube in the middle of what was by now a dead orchard, must have been of some interest to the locals who observed from a distance, reclined on their porches among propane tanks and cages of live fowl. The invitation had mentioned that the newly delivered Tiny House was fully hooked up with electricity and plumbing, ready for the event which would be as much Rip’s birthday party as a get-together for a few longtime friends who had, over the years, scattered to different parts of the world. When the two of us arrived, we barely fitted in, the space crammed with guests on pillows and tatami mats. Scanning across the faces, we only recognized Rip and his wife, Lark. Wine was poured with urgency, then Lark asked Rip to introduce each guest. When he rose, we all gazed up at him, but he just turned and entered the miniscule bathroom. The quiet that followed was quickly interrupted by the roar of urination he made no effort to disguise. I found myself admiring the boldness, a choice that reflected a degree of equanimity I’d long strived for yet never quite achieved. With nothing to say, we were all left to sit and listen. A couple of minutes later, when the noise of drilled water lost none of its intensity, I started to wonder whether this was Rip’s way of celebrating, whether in the days leading up to the party he’d been vigorously hydrating without allowing any fluids to leave his bladder, only to finally let go on a singular occasion. I noticed you, too, seemed captivated. Meanwhile, a man sitting directly in front of us had decided the only available space to rest his large socked foot was between your slightly spread thighs. He asked us something in what sounded like Dutch, but the volume of Rip’s stream made it difficult to understand. Finally, Lark excused herself and joined Rip in the bathroom. We could hear their hushed conversation while the cascade continued. No music, no birdsong, no dog barks, not even a hint of nearby traffic. There came a point where Rip’s torrent ceased. Swinging the narrow door open, Lark emerged from the bathroom carrying Rip on her back, lowering his body gently onto the floor by the wall. His eyes were shut, lips arranged in a faint smile. Lark reached into the cabinet and produced a small cake pierced by a single candle. She ignited it with her Bic and we rushed through a harmonized Happy Birthday. After the last note, everyone clapped, but Rip stayed motionless on the pine floor, facing the ceiling. You leaned toward me and whispered that perhaps we, too, could buy a Tiny House. I looked out into the darkness of the orchard, the distant porches with figures blued by bug zappers suspended from eaves. “Are you listening?” you asked, breath thick with fermented grapes. I nodded and we kissed. The Dutch man was, again, studying us, and from the corner of my eye I noticed Rip began to move.
~
Ode to Anticipation
What’s that smell? Is it the cellos? The bassoons? Is it our keenness? Could it be the timpanist in tails, adjusting the tension of his skin? Now the pings, arpeggios and toots of tuning, the ions in the sold-out hall toying with our spleens. This—yes, this—is why you came. Not merely for the Mahler’s Adagietto and the preposterously youthful conductor about to sweep onto the stage, delivering his enormous hair to the raised platform from which he’ll attempt to take flight. Something’s happening to the air, to the murmur from the orchestra seats. Something about the plush armrests, the knees and napes, the coiffures obstructing your view. All that, plus a whiff of dissatisfaction, like the scent of thawed meat, possibly put forth by those who have been brought here against their will. The ones soon to plunge into profound unconsciousness, roused only by the cymbals smashed by the man stood beside the timpanist. When the houselights fade to leave the penguin-like instrumentalists gleam in their isle of luminosity, you become a rocketeer seeing the Earth from the Moon. The one you’re with squeezes your wrist. It has the quality of an act viewed through a vaselined lens. The maestro enters and you watch your hands clap. You feel older now. A bit guilty. Perhaps a cocktail at the intermission.
~
First-Grade Substitute
Good morning, children. Don’t raise your hands yet. That’s right, I’m filling in for Mrs. Davis. Can I share a little secret with you? Yes? Well — I stayed up late last night. That’s right, very, very late. Why do you think I did? Take a guess. No… No… No… You give up? Okay. I was smoking, watching my wife bake a cake. And we both had a taste of what’s called a single molt Scotch. You know, my little hearts, there’s a thing Mrs. Davis probably hasn’t brought up to you yet. It’s called affection. Remember the word. It’s what the moon’s gravity does to the goo in our hearts. Like a tummy ache, but higher in the chest. Just ask your parents when you get home. And while you’re at it, ask them about disappointment, unease, addiction and the happiness of the dead. Now, if you promise not to tell anyone, we’re not going to read anything today. And we’re not going to write anything either. Can I hear you say Yeah? I can’t HEAR you! Say YEAH like you mean it! There you go! Okay, who’s hungry? Guess what’s in that box on my desk? It’s called Medusa’s head — my wife’s work of art. The eyes are maraschinos. The snake-hair is marzipan. Pass along those paper plates. And feel free to eat with your hands.
~
Monday, August 29th
One moment, I’m buying shoes. The next, I’m leaning against my car, looking at them. My phone says it’s Monday, August 29th, the summer almost gone. The supple shoes make me drowsy. I open the door and lie down on the back seat, awaiting the state where things stop making sense. My uncle used to claim slumber gives us an afterlife approximation. I think of a picture Vivian Maier took in 1950s New York of a man in a three-piece suit, lying across the front benchseat of his sedan, the door ajar, a fedora hung from the steering wheel’s gear lever, one arm thrown over his chest, the other on the stomach. We do not see his head. He might be sleeping; he might be dead.~~
~
Ode to the Audition
Could you take off your hat and step on the scale / now step on the other scale / excellent / sit on that stool and look into the lens / good / tell us a little about yourself / okay that’s enough / we’re running a bit short on time so in a few words your approach to nudity / sure / what about ferocity / okay / now step on the scale again / any metal in your body / good / theater-in-the-round / great / now look left / excellent / look right / cut / can you ride a horse / if you don’t mind Frank would like to measure your hands / what is your practice / when you say Bukowski do you mean Stanislavski / it says here you can sing / nice / what’s in that backpack / we don’t allow animals in here / oh that’s a child / okay we can give it some water / any screentests / would you show us the making-love-to-the-lens look / now the wounded look / better / we’re almost done / would you mind if Frank takes a few Polaroids of the child / sure we have a few seconds to hear about your family / okay that’s enough.
~
The Will
Reflected in the hardware store window, I am a transparent man striding through rakes, wrenches and sawblades, my lucky felt hat getting darker in the rain. I’m walking home, thinking of writing a will. A composition whose style may bear a faint resemblance to a suicide note, a pronouncement blaming too many people—my father, my ex, the German pope. At some point, it may become more of a ledger, listing furniture items, the rowboat, my collection of rocks. I might muse about the body’s compressed strata of delight and grief, the unfathomable amount of copulation endured since it crawled from the sea. How much solace can a will deliver to someone’s heart? What should I leave to the small bird ringing from the porch, pulsing its russet throat, its tiny mind igniting a song? How to weigh the sweet inanity of being, the cache somewhere in the center of the Earth, filled with bicycles of everyone’s youth? The cloudburst has eased now, the wet branches clacking in the wind. A car speeds by, the wheels lifting puddle water into a crystal wall that advances toward me. It hangs in the air, unfurled like a fan fringed with lace.
~
Exit
After hearing the news, I pictured him on the operating table, chest open like a Venus flytrap. “His teeth were too big.” The five of us stood in the hallway and stared at the surgeon’s mask. Since we couldn’t see his lips, we weren’t positive he had just said that. Maybe it was a loud thought we thought we thought. We were wearing masks too. “His what?” I said. The surgeon turned to Becky, perhaps unsure who’d just asked the question, and said, “I’m sorry.” Or did Ralph say that? We hunched in a semi-circle, Ralph’s unending forehead facing mine. You squeezed my hand, possibly a signal. “If you’ll excuse me, I have another procedure in two minutes,” the surgeon said, his head covered by a pale-blue cap tied in the back with a neat double-looped string dangling gently as he strode away, down the green-walled corridor. “Fuck me,” I said. “Luther, please shut up,” said Web. “Let’s not fight,” said Becky, “we need to go sign the papers.” Becky, the voice of reason. Becky, the wearer of latex gloves. “Okay, Becky,” I said, “let’s sign the papers.” The man at the reception looked up from his phone and said he had no papers for us to sign. We kept walking down the hall toward the automatic doors that opened and closed every time a pigeon flew by.
~
Peter Krumbach is the author of Degrees of Romance (Elixir Press, 2024), the winner of The Antivenom Poetry Award. More online at peterkrumbach.com