Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
IN THE DEN
MICHAEL MARTRICH
BLAZEVOX[BOOKS]
Buffalo, New York
The Hole in the Den
by Michael Martrich
Copyright 2017
First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-277-8
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017930016
BlazeVOX [books]
131 Euclid Ave
Kenmore, NY 14217
Editor@blazevox.org
BlazeVOX [ books ]
blazevox.org
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thinking about knowing others with secrets
Back into the yard again, Lucas slips startled backwards and the
motion-detector lights split the spitting dogwoods. Lucas slips
backwards arms out then on his ass. He dives rolling dark now in
a guffaw behind the spitting dogwoods and bowls somehow now
bodily into me, peering from behind the spitting dogwoods, both
of us laughing, in bodies in the dark now behind the spitting
dogwoods, where Im weaker is my back pinned and, behind the
spitting dogwoods now, from where beams of motion-detector
lights splitting the spitting dogwoods, his weight into my stomach
squeezes, Wait, I squeeze, feeling his locked arms holding my
shoulders down in the lawn, The cops.
Theres a moment of silence taken seriously, stillness in the
grass, my shoulders still held against the ground, beams through
the spitting dogwoods, my hands in his loose shirt but not
touching him, and my hands are floating. (Nothing) is silence
taken seriously. Is nothing.
Just light beams through the spitting dogwoods and
everything stops. The brightness of the lawn and the house.
The sky borders the tree. The stars. The beams of light grow
faint in periphery. On the green, remember? The hand rubs my
face into my hair slowing my laugh is perfectly still and timeless in
laughing that seemed to happen and is gone, the beams in the dark
now faint in the periphery is an atmospheres slow sediment. The
stars. The stars, too.
Jesses got my bag. Where the hell, he was right here, says
Lucas squints a bright lawn through beams of light wont go out
splitting the spitting dogwoods is not so faint recalls Day Timers
with the white cotton goo all over you
as landscapers out of high school that summer in green shirts
with arms sticky with visible spit when pruning that collected
stems for hugging bundles of dogwood branches against our shirts
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Got four! bursting from the surface is, You sure you had
five?
Min smiles, thinking of what it means to be missing, gone, or
invisible, if invisible is another infinity: the invisible penny she
simply dropped by her foot. Invisibles not quite a liquid. Even
mist isnt quite water. Maybe hes right. But thats the hole in the
den, sure, that were simply left here and deserted or:
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then that none of us matter unless its right now, this visibility, but
then like underneath rocks and thinking only of our relations from
these rocks, to these rocks, our rocks, the rocks we know. What
happens when you die?
Who cares?
Serious?
Asshole.
Be so burnt wont.
In the tip of the flashing arc, the scythe shape, though
underneath our rocks that are mine and with us, flashes stationary.
The flashing arc in Torys vision came out of nowhere, out of the
invisible, but he can see it now. Be so burnt wont even know it,
the other shook his head. But Tory sees the flashing of an arc in
his vision, in his head, is some sort of blunted headache or vision.
Thats my plan.
James walked around the stone wall and slid down the bank
towards the stream where Min felt like the picnoleptic little girl
with her camera, down the bank towards the picnoleptic girl
saying, This way, a soft power in directing James, behind
walking with the flow of the stream away from the red covered
bridge. Down a ways a smaller footbridge.
She let him go. Just one more.
She let him go. Just one more. She lets the other penny
drop next to her foot. It was there but hed never find it. But he
knew there was a fifth. He knew it existed or had.
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talking like the boy who tells everyone he could have been on the
billboard said, That girls a bitch. Theyre always talking just to
say something. Like hardly listening. Its the repetition of walking
that forgets each step, each touching of the ground. But I think of
the arc that flashes in my head, the fingerprint and the name I
have given it: Fingerprint. Too, something to the sound on the
leaves, too, on the fallen branches we call smooth wood to each
other when the poplar bark is peeled off like leather.
So much shit to do and I aint even gonna do it, says
Lucas.
Bullshit. You always do your work. And whom I gonna
copy off?
Your mom always makes you.
Still sits with you at the dinner table, remembering when
the yellow-spotted salamander yawned, how its mouth opened,
the soft pink of its tongue, the salamanders, against the perfect
black of amphibian skin, how we didnt want to return it
underneath the leaves. But then the past that will become then
and then will be then and be cos weve called it so: thats always
now, a present (a tribal world). And when it changes it changes to
then and we see a new now. And somewhere there invisible, those
weve forgotten or never knew existed, those separate. When does
that separation occur? It must at some point.
Well, what do you think it is?
Weve learned to want effect.
And, yet, we need this each other. Stan says Kurzweils trip
prepares for of releasing from everyday is the threat. Like, the
after. Once internet is part of our brains, well have one brain, it
will be like an afterlife; thats the only way he can think of it. A last
trip. [The electricity trip in Pynchon, Slothrops son. You dont
come back, he told his father.] If we only become electricity the
past that will become, you know, then, and then will be then and
be but, see, then it wont matter, like its after knowing an after.
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A Form,
so he climbed the fence and I can only imagine what it was just
before letting go, if he, the one who would eventually become
invisible, a city now with one less cloud, looked out into the gorge,
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The Hole in the Den
into the dark, the one who would eventually become invisible, if
he listened to the water below, as if it were invisible, and looked
out. But listened. Really listened.
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the den is Johns, but I wonder if I can still feel it or know it,
know it when John is gone.
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a sort of escape.
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felt the heat like wind
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the sunken weight in nights grid
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The metallic diner where in the parking lot Lucas opens the
door is the drivers seat is the inside that smells of after school in
the mesh seats is cigarettes.
These Maths Change With Steps in the parking lot to
the car or
is dodging thicket briar is Longaberger basket briar wire
cylinders or now staring at the sky and Lucas in the diner just
wants to go home. Just tired, he said, and we walked into the
parking lot looking at the sky on our way to the Tercel.
Fallen trees and branches, wires like garden netting and
Susans hair scratching from her hood, her hair always in a braid
and smells like that perfume smells clean like flowers crushed in
vodka (that John drinks, the stolen bottle from his kitchen he
might not return [the bottle] but keep it hidden in the woods
beneath a rotting log). The lights from houses and streets from the
city waver is distance. Trace it with a gun, and an individual with a
will forgets were not living in the eighteenth century on a farm.
From atop the water tower, the straight streets have streetlights
and traffic patterns, traffic lights that change and porch lights
unzipping the grid with a distance index and a thumb.
You have that feeling you could just roll off?
Dont. Just dont.
No. I know. But its like. Just get this feeling of like letting
go, you know? On the edge. Like just rolling off and hoping
theres nowhere to land, like those seconds from here to theres
forever. But he knew. He knew if the people down there in the
decentralized lights, there in the spaces of numbers, in houses and
cars on the highway, if they wanted to see him, theyd have to look
up. Theyd have to really look. We should light a candle up here.
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Have someone out there see if they can see it, the candle on top
of the water tower, the candle in place, like the candles stuck in
the sandstone cave in the woods near the water tower where bats
were awakened into quick flashes with smoke, like leaves blowing
in the wind fast-forwarded on video, wishing maybe if hed
smoked he wouldnt be hiding in the hood and sleeves of his
sweatshirt deep in the sandstone cave is thinking if hed smoked
he wouldnt find his way out, the tight squeeze, the corkscrew
upwards towards the larger rock stuck in between the split, still
not quite near the entrance, not enough to see some sort of glow,
some sort of glow without flashlights, the outside, but the candle
strange to see from I-78 humps (slanted) over the mountain where
underneath is a tunnel inch-thin-layered with water where wed
ride our bikes until the other end where it broke into a deeper
stream dumped a tire and hubcaps where jeeps off-roaded in the
70s, a time imagined, everyone camped in canvas and with Primus
canteens before the boulders blockaded the wide trails, and drank
from cans crushed empty they littered by old fire pits.
Or maybe Mins cigarette or that Dave and Jessica dont
know secrets; they keep no secrets. They spray-paint their names
onto trees. They dont know anything. Except their sex: thats a
secret. Once its uncovered, they move on to make it a secret once
again. Then her secrets, the waitress, that the shape of her secrets
is her sex, her clothes shaped over her sex, why she wears her
blonde hair always in a braid and smells like that perfume smells
clean like flowers crushed in vodka (that John drinks, the stolen
bottle from his kitchen he might not return [the bottle] but keep it
hidden in the woods).
But accustomed to the perfume that smells like flowers
crushed in vodka clean and know its the waitress.
I dont know if I like it, when he takes a swig and bitters
his face, chin pressed against the side of his neck and I feel his
distance like space was distances with no direction, nothing, that
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the frogs stopped singing to our slapping at each other, Get it off
me! hitting off the large centipedes from each others backs (not
those, but the irrelevant ones dangled over the Preachers fire.
Distance was an index and a thumb.)
But, He told me he believed. He told me so. I
remembered my first day at work landscaping and pruning the
hedge surrounding the development he told me, too. And I
believed him. The day I heard: I kept my head down and just
mulched, throwing it out of the truck into a pile over the curb.
The borough foreman told me just minutes before in the truck
that he overdosed and said I could get off for the morning, maybe
the whole day. Emptiness is a feeling in your throat.
Then at the funeral the man said, He told me when he
prayed it felt empty, like it wasnt real. He wanted it to be real. He
wanted it, and he believed. Didnt just want to go through the
motions. We were sitting there in the first pew listening to, No
matter the crowd he found here, he believed, and it bothered me
that Id shaved only for the first time that morning.
Why not when he was talking about us made me think of
him being sent away for months, sometimes a year or two, the
onion soup was all they got for lunch and dinner when he wanted
to believe when you could see his rib cage thin and the bones in
his face like skin stretched like the path that levels off where they
head to a lookout of rocks they call crows nest, a name taken
from the older kids. The older kids are different now. Watching
the older kids from behind the fence: we gathered tennis balls we
found in the retention briar alongside the tennis courts and hid in
the neighboring wood trail throwing at them shirtless on the
basketball courts where they paid more attention now to the girls
smoking cigarettes in the pavilion than the score. They took off
their shirts and acted like they had some shit going on and
shouting like this never happens to them with every missed shot
and stretching is an excuse while swearing tells girls theyre all old
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up the steps from her and shouted past her, through her, Hi!
Then embarrassed, remember her as some shade of blue from a
town of blue tint, heard she was dating Marshall in the eighth
grade, Derrick joked and called him General, I thought more
recently, best answer I could have given her, guilty like how we
never look to that tree where the cat had climbed and couldnt get
down, and we pretended we forgot where it is. Look down and
away when we walk that path is how I know we pretend. The only
way was to jump, even if falling asleep to Wake! falling, stuttering
with paws suddenly.
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