The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations Millennium General Assembly by Denis Johnson Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Denis Johnson
dance before the theater;
the woman in an aluminum hat who rises
out of the sidewalk on an elevator softly
through metal doors that part above her like waterâ
telling myself that no one can walk on the water,
nobody can take these little ones softly
enough against his chest. The flood rises
and the pigeon shows us how to die before the theater,
where terror is only the aftermath of peace
full of sharks, the mutilated
surface over the falling deep, only water.
The Spectacle
In every house
a cigaret burns,
an ash descends.
In the ludicrous breeze
of an electric fan
the papers talk,
and little vague
things float over
the floor. When
you turn the TV
on it says, âKilled
by FBI sharpshooters,â
it says, âYears he was with
the organization.â
I have a friend
on the fourth tier
of a parking ramp.
To one ear he holds
a revolver, to the
other a telephone. TV
cameras move
this way and that way
on the neighboring roofs.
We all know this guy,
heâs one of us,
you can see him
changing his position
slowly on the news.
When you turn the TV on
it says, âEverything I owned,
all I loved, in 1947,â
then thereâs a preacher
saying that on the bluffs
of Hell the shadows
are terribleâthere
when a spirit turns
from the firelight
he sees the shadow
of a man murdering
another man, and knows
the shadow is his.
Weâre all waiting
for our friendâs
head to explode.
We must go down
to see him plainly,
stand still on the street
knowing his name
as the heat peels a film
from our eyes and
we see, finally,
the colors of neon,
the fluorescence
of gas stations ticking
like lightning,
the pools of light,
the sirens moving
through water,
everything
locked in a kind
of amber. But we
who appear to have
escaped from a fire
are still burning.
When the cameras turn
to look at us
we feel so invisible,
we do not feel seen ,
calling him home
with a star
in every voice,
calling his name,
stranger,
oh! stranger.
Someone They Arenât
Of all the movies that have made me sweat
The ones that make me most uncomfortable
Are those in which a terrible fool pretends to be
Someone they arenâtâ
A man, a woman, a gentile, a cop, dog, mannequin, tree.
Of all the movies that have made me uncomfortableâ
All those with cliffs; with triggers; with creeping gauges and
Sand that slowly covers up the fingers; fog
That binds and makes even of standing
Still a rending and departure; and slow, blown tracersâ
Those that have really made me sweat are the ones
The professors are moving past, and looking in, and seeing
The dark shells of heads,
And above them,
Where our dreams and the smoke
Of our thinking,
Where our sighs and untended and escaping
Souls must be drifting,
The beam of projection like something
We are in the jaws of.
And the professors
Go by, pointing at this one or that one.
They pick out the dancer and tell her she canât dance,
They explain the rules to the poet and dismiss him,
They drag the clerk out under the fluorescent light,
They put numerals on the storekeeperâs fingertips,
They read the TV Guide to the mothers and fathers
And lay wounds upon the sons and chasms beside the daughters.
This is the kind of movie that drives me crazy,
The movies through which the professors move,
Face-owners, eyes of lichen, impossible to impress, dead inside,
Looking for somebody they can trust again,
Someone to make them feel betrayed one more time.
The Words of a Toast
The man wants to make love to the crippled manâs sister
because he loves the crippled man.
The man cries
beside the bed of the man who cannot breathe.
He stands in the parking lot, turning in the sun.
He says to the restaurant, Iâm closed,
and to the sunlight, Why donât you arrest me?
But the spring changes so thickly among the buildings, the sun
brightens so sharply on the walls,
and the air tastes
the woman in an aluminum hat who rises
out of the sidewalk on an elevator softly
through metal doors that part above her like waterâ
telling myself that no one can walk on the water,
nobody can take these little ones softly
enough against his chest. The flood rises
and the pigeon shows us how to die before the theater,
where terror is only the aftermath of peace
full of sharks, the mutilated
surface over the falling deep, only water.
The Spectacle
In every house
a cigaret burns,
an ash descends.
In the ludicrous breeze
of an electric fan
the papers talk,
and little vague
things float over
the floor. When
you turn the TV
on it says, âKilled
by FBI sharpshooters,â
it says, âYears he was with
the organization.â
I have a friend
on the fourth tier
of a parking ramp.
To one ear he holds
a revolver, to the
other a telephone. TV
cameras move
this way and that way
on the neighboring roofs.
We all know this guy,
heâs one of us,
you can see him
changing his position
slowly on the news.
When you turn the TV on
it says, âEverything I owned,
all I loved, in 1947,â
then thereâs a preacher
saying that on the bluffs
of Hell the shadows
are terribleâthere
when a spirit turns
from the firelight
he sees the shadow
of a man murdering
another man, and knows
the shadow is his.
Weâre all waiting
for our friendâs
head to explode.
We must go down
to see him plainly,
stand still on the street
knowing his name
as the heat peels a film
from our eyes and
we see, finally,
the colors of neon,
the fluorescence
of gas stations ticking
like lightning,
the pools of light,
the sirens moving
through water,
everything
locked in a kind
of amber. But we
who appear to have
escaped from a fire
are still burning.
When the cameras turn
to look at us
we feel so invisible,
we do not feel seen ,
calling him home
with a star
in every voice,
calling his name,
stranger,
oh! stranger.
Someone They Arenât
Of all the movies that have made me sweat
The ones that make me most uncomfortable
Are those in which a terrible fool pretends to be
Someone they arenâtâ
A man, a woman, a gentile, a cop, dog, mannequin, tree.
Of all the movies that have made me uncomfortableâ
All those with cliffs; with triggers; with creeping gauges and
Sand that slowly covers up the fingers; fog
That binds and makes even of standing
Still a rending and departure; and slow, blown tracersâ
Those that have really made me sweat are the ones
The professors are moving past, and looking in, and seeing
The dark shells of heads,
And above them,
Where our dreams and the smoke
Of our thinking,
Where our sighs and untended and escaping
Souls must be drifting,
The beam of projection like something
We are in the jaws of.
And the professors
Go by, pointing at this one or that one.
They pick out the dancer and tell her she canât dance,
They explain the rules to the poet and dismiss him,
They drag the clerk out under the fluorescent light,
They put numerals on the storekeeperâs fingertips,
They read the TV Guide to the mothers and fathers
And lay wounds upon the sons and chasms beside the daughters.
This is the kind of movie that drives me crazy,
The movies through which the professors move,
Face-owners, eyes of lichen, impossible to impress, dead inside,
Looking for somebody they can trust again,
Someone to make them feel betrayed one more time.
The Words of a Toast
The man wants to make love to the crippled manâs sister
because he loves the crippled man.
The man cries
beside the bed of the man who cannot breathe.
He stands in the parking lot, turning in the sun.
He says to the restaurant, Iâm closed,
and to the sunlight, Why donât you arrest me?
But the spring changes so thickly among the buildings, the sun
brightens so sharply on the walls,
and the air tastes