Emissary

This morning, walking the beach to clear the loose mental cables of an hour’s sleep, I see a big shape a quarter mile down, half-lost in the mist of the winter’s morning. Turns out it’s a dead humpback whale, four thousand pounds of blubber and bone mashed ashore in some final contempt of the sea. Gulls whirl about, pecking at the flesh, delighted to finally to have acreage instead of crumbs. A gaggle of human onlookers keeps a ten paces back out of respect for a riotous stench, a sourmash of shit and fishrot and brine.

But what of those stilled graying eyes on either side of the head, seeing nothing anymore where we stand? Ahab enquired a sperm whale’s head after the rest of its body had been shorn of blubber and boiled down for oil; he wanted news of the hoary depths that head had harrowed, down in the immense blackness of his own heart. To me the head is just immensely sad, and the freight of the beast on this shore today is heartbreaking. So many whales beaching this year, starting up in New England in the feeding grounds, now picking up down South during the migration and breeding round. Someone from the NOAA fishery will be by to take samples, gathering data which might account for these suicidal ends -- viruses, illness, the presence of biotoxins, anything.

A message delivered by the lords of the sea, bottling up this whale on our shore. But for whose benefit? Those eyes aren’t searching us out, that’s for sure. Waves flutter uselessly along its flanks, tidal rhythms moot in moving this new barrier island. The morning surly in waking, the eastern cloudfronts refusing to delve the sun yet -- only a mottle confused light straining against steel. What do the elements care? We’ll get the stinking thing hauled off before it gets to be more of than a curious nuisance.

I stare for ten seconds more, hands jammed in the pockets of my windbreaker, and am surprised to feel so much love in me streaming out toward that ugly dead bulk. What is it? -- I’m welling with sacchyrine tenderness for this dead child of some far extra-species mother, so alone and bereft while the birds weave and dive bearing gobbets of its flesh in their beaks, while we superior ones shuffle like rubes at the carnival, straining for a peek at the real deal, annihilation at its nakedest. Seems my heart is breaking everywhere these days for animals of every specie and phylum—ghost crabs scurrying back from waves, pinkpurple man-o-wars on the sand, their tentacles like the scattered hair of pillaged virgins, sandpipers whose legs blur in motion as they run to and fro ... What fragile smallness to eke a living on the surface of cruel immensities ... Even Joe Leviathan here, poor thing, so far from kin and element and life itself ...

There’s an origin story told by Black Elk, the Oglala Sioux medicine man who was interviewed in 1948. These Sioux had migrated to the Plains around 1680 from the forests of the upper Mississippi. Surely the territories were as different as sea and shore. So its no wonder that their myths had to morph as well.

The story he told was this: Early one morning long ago, two Sioux braves carrying bow and arrows were hunt into new territory. They peer down from a hill down looking for game and see a faint figure walking toward them . Turns out it’s a beautiful maiden dressed in white buckskin and bearing a package on her back. One of the braves is enflamed with lust and speaks his desire to his partner. But the other rebukes him, saying this is obviously no mortal woman.

The woman stops and looks up at them and calls the first to come near. He does so, hurrying down from the hill, but when he reaches the maiden a cloud descends over them. When it lifts there the woman stands, but the man is reduced to a pile of bones through which swarm devouring snakes.

“Behold what you see!” The woman shouts to the other. “Now tell your people to prepare a large ceremonial lodge for my coming. I wish to announce something of great importance.”

So the guy hurries back to his tribe and speaks with the chief, who quickly has some tents torn down and reassembled into a ceremonial lodge. The woman appears and, lifting the package she has been carrying high in the air, says, “Behold this bundle and always love it! It is very sacred and you must treat it as such. No impure man should ever be allowed to see it: for within this bundle there is a very holy pipe. With this pipe you will, down the years to come, send your voices to Wakan Tanka, your Father and Grandfather.”

***

I walk on, leaving behind the dead whale’s emissary weight. It’s no bigger really than some of the other crypts sinking in my chest, caskets filled with bones old and older, slowly descending toward oblivions never to be bourned with a kiss. Eros marries Thanatos in the end, his burning arrow grazing the nipples of the sky only to plunge into the world’s inevitable lap, hissing out at it dives into the brine.

Of course I wanted to fuck her. Of course I made a myth of her. Of course I walk on here, on course for some third articulation or language, of big night music and its harrowing insides composed, no longer at war with the world, prodigal to its silent brooding wash down and down a shore which has yet to brighten. Maybe the whale is the bundle of that maid I must help raise from the sea’s bottom, a delved bit of gold still deep in a whale’s belly where it must remain, where I must re-frame my sentences.

Or maybe he’s the cloud which descends over my desire to write those very sentences, turning words into snakes which feast on blue lucence till all that remains are my bones.

I’m rowing toward the next voice, father Ahab, grandfather Noah. Stick it in your pipe and smoke it till that dead whale’s eyes see me here where it counts.

Sea canopy

My guitar fell down a well; something surfaced slowly in its place, stranger, deeper, more resonant, frightening and cold, older and yet prescient, wilder for suggesting a work that lay beyond anything I could reach on any sawhorse of need.

But something had to die. It’s only happenstance that it wasn’t my actual heart. That survived into the next rooms of the tale; call it luck if you will, but I choose to give credit the grace of a power I’ll never know or own. Drunk as I got in that last bad season, on any night I could have veered off the road into an oncoming car or careened into a tree. I was out in the zombie zone, drinking a slow rictus fizz beneath the moon, impeccable, already dead.

And those mornings of coming to with the sun shrieking madly through the tattered curtains of my dirty garage apartment, each brilliant beam an accusing finger, a sword ... How easy it would have been to open that guitar case at the bottom of my nights, climb into its plush blue interior, and close myself there. But I knew I’d only wake up come the next dying of the light and crawl out, emerging from black surf to prey once again up and down the night’s shore, desperate to slake an dry dead for warmth that I had failed to engender on my own. Too chicken to simply kill myself, I opted instead for a long suffocation of nights.

Strangely, the booze proved the whale’s belly which got me through. I kept at my nightly infernoes, drinking through a random motley of fern bars and rock clubs, topless joints and cheap-booze dives so deep in the downtown’s tarry districts of waste you feel forked into by devils beyond measure ... And there I stood, saddled up to the bar, my hair flawless, roostered, tossing back those bottomless shots, waiting, waiting for someone to smile, offering a throat’s pale bed with its red booze to gout and wash the hallows of my need. Waiting for Love in its wallowing brothels, settling for neon and near-nude pasties, handjobs and someone else’s blackout promises, all of those signatures of what a dim soul settles for in failing to write his own name.

And that was Avalon for those nights, strange harbor in the white acre of a bed’s surrendered flesh, drowning the fuse at last in its profanest sources ... And that was the dream. Usually I just shuffled out at closing time with the rest of the preterit, falling into a hell’s mouth of blackout roads to what I had made of a home. There were spinouts and flat tires, mysterious long scrapes in the car doors on either side, front and back fenders cracked from mystery impacts. One night driving home in a blackout I heard a tire go and I just kept driving, not having a spare in the truck and devoutly unwilling to stop and deal with the mess. A neighbor told me the next day she had woken up at 3:30 am hearing a godawaful scraping grinding screeching sound approaching and she looked out her bedroom window to see my car lurching slowly down the street, leaning to one corner where instead of a tire there was metal scraping along the asphalt throwing sparks everywhere. Another night all of the same net whiskey and beer landed me in a drunk tank’s greeny morgue. I came to at 5 a.m. and saw one guy passed out in his vomit at my feet and a second hunched in a corner with his arms tight around his chest, mumbling some words over and over.

In my end is my beginning. That started me sobering up. It was then I saw my drinking as rictus of a life that had died. I didn’t stay sober all the way, but I did keep surrendering, increasingly convinced that the big night music had distilled a fiction of power chords in my brain, a riptiding sound I had worshiped and vaulted as something I could somehow possess and squander and utterly lose.

A something else slowly began to waken along the edges of that dead giant. The perception or intimation of deeper and wilder contours. As the compulsion to wreak havoc faded, a tide unmistakably surged, lucent, strange for refusing to allow itself a name while demanding that I try to find one. Words became saddles for wavelike lines of ink washing margin to margin of the page, galloping mad toward the ends of a sayable world. Or something like that. The big night music in bigger articulation than I could ever have said with a guitar. Had I crossed a guitar-shaped bridge to enter some castle of song in some deeper region of the heart? That was the question I mined for years, reading and writing the inside harrows of a fallen berserker’s undying song.

It sounded that way for the next season, which lasted about ten seasonal rounds. All that ink, dark and measureless as the sea sighing 30 yards from this bed, all liquid vowel, impossible to speak. Such dead shapelessness out there with everything below, drowned, dancing, demiurgic. Two bells, maybe three. The sax player has given up the ghost for the night, thank God, and the arguing couple have warred down to a drone so low the breeze has hidden whatever they needed in its ever-long sighing. I drift on in this bed with an unseen starry canopy arching forever above, my bones like the ribs of a coracle, powerless, free at least to speak of nothing that matters ...

Big Night Music

Other dead-a.m. sounds push me further offshore from home. The couple next door are at it again, their voices warring timbres with registers of love and hate in blooded confusion. That damn sax player is hawking and splatting riffs which suggest long encrustation, a keel too rusty to cleanly part waters any more. Their New Year’s party still cruising along, a ship of fools under the wash of jackal moon.

My antilife, or -lives, indigo negatives of my loves. Of marriage I will say nothing here -- I can’t, not at this precipitous hour, where many other sober men and women have cried Aw Fuck It and wandered out. But I will comment on that time when I gave up playing music years ago, sold off my electric guitars, bartered my amp stack for track recording system I had meant to try spoken word over jazz, during that overheated summer in Orlando before I met Jan.

I was living in a small second-floor apartment on just off tiny Lake Cherokee on the near south side of town, trying to dry out over the months before the courts made me attend my first AA meeting. A summer of high-90’s swelt, puffs of midmorning cloud coalescing and building through the afternoon into towering ziggaurat of storm, thrashing the city streets with a whiteout of rain, every surface washed clean, remaining in the far early evening sky like black armadas, their bellies charged with naked leys of heat lightning, flashes which echoed on the black glass surface of Lake Cherokee like a congregation’s amen, the streets still humid, steam hovering about the temples of early night with vicious viscous lust ... And no booze I would drink, no deeper night I could turn to, not after all that had been lost ...

For it was a midzone season, surfacing and diving in different ways. The big night music was sinking away from me, my guitar’s sacred identity in loud pounding nights of stage-side frenzy in smoky bars reeking of beer and soppy lust dulled to profanes, a weight which deadened that guitar, made it fall too, hauling with it that deadended creature of abandonment to the louder nature of things I had become.

I was losing or forsaking an identity that had worked for ten years of my misspent youth, separating from me like flesh from bone, ripping away the bandolier of big night songs I worshiped and tried to write, each song a cruel and cunning high-caliber bullet fashioned to shatter ever armor that stands in the way of desire. How else shall I say it? The loss of the big night music felt like a great hand indifferently tearing from my neck the trophy necklace I had assembled, heavy with wolf canines and big-cat sabres and teeth ripped from the violated mouths of employers and cops, critical girlfriends and pissed-off fathers, all of whom barred the true doors to night with their worlds-puncturing No ...

Songs like wickedly sharp swords that had been killed a hundred times in the magma knots of the earth all the way down at its core,tempered till they gleamed with their own light, a self-shrill steel whose edge slashed the entire night’s course between ecstasy and doom ,,, Only rarely can a band at mid-set offer up the song which thunders and hooves all the way to our naked source, pent on a perilous and razor-precise road -- thin as a blade, sharp and hot as struck flint -- hammering all the way into the furious heart beating out, that hot palp of welcome which appoints a lucky night to bliss.

A killer song plunges right into the abyss to cleave love clean through, marrying desire’s ends by the cruellest of means, locating the Grail castle in the center of an unspeakably banal waste partying on past the last border of night, if only for one song, for one night, finding if for only one time in a life the full amplitude of the big night music’s pagan DNA coiled around tensioned strings and taut skins.

Of that welcome which shrieks at our extreme, that Other waiting just off the map at a Cape beyond the ends of the singable, drummable, howled-at-full volume world, well, you take a song to its Wagnerian extreme and it bloats, it can’t swim any longer at its chill depths, it lifts the beast gasping toward the ceiling of the brine cathedral in fatal, fin de siecle cool ... I dunno, maybe that big night music proved itself to high or deep a power for my talent and balls; my belief in my ability to stay aboard its perilous coracle faded after so many nights of getting upended and dumped in with the night’s brine, just another bit of flotsam to add to the trash tide. The edge grew fainter, harder to find, its ledge under my feet more unforgiving, keener, the falloff more precipitous.

Maybe I was just getting too old for that shit. As it happened I slowly lost interest; whatever fuse in me that leapt toward those sources spluttered and doused. No new songs came up from the well, and the playing grew sterile, going over the same old riffs, noodling where structures of futurity should have been rising. Bandmates moved in with girlfriends or got heavy into coke or shipped off for better gigs. One blew his brains out with a shotgun, and I hear another is waiting for his second liver transplant, his face horribly ballooned from the meds he takes trying to keep the first asshole’s liver working in his puke body.

Without out a cause the drinking just became a curse, an upside-down manifesto, bereft even of any excuse I believed ... And the bands played on, triumphant, mocking, the guitar players and singers casually picking off the barmaids and fresh-of-age pretties at closing time, leaving the rest of us to bite at the glass necks of our tallboys, eyes red and wild.

I still dutifully practiced every day for some months, but the insides of my power chords were fading like the surf of a shore growing indistinct in fog, droning faint and fainter. A year or two further was devoted and lost to this zombie state of dead songs animated by mere habit, the sense of duty to so much time devoted to something now lost. The licks like Latin disappearing from the tongue, a language or culture dying in my ear, drying on my hands. Eventually skill became useless, even criminal, and articulation moot.

Of course the big night music strolled on, finding a fresh tribe of young bucks pent on fame’s immolation, a fresh tide of sperm and sweat and driving hooves to lavish with dreams of infinite pussy and wholly squander come first light. The big night music didn’t even smile as it passed me over, its old news, spent wad, the outre, 80’s man boy who’s overdue for real work, doubtful and crabby where the song needed blue sass and hotsauce. My guitar stayed in its case for more than a day, then three, then a week then a month, popping back out on rare occasions when I flayed my fingertips playing the old war songs, like a geezer pulling his uniform out of a musty chest in the closet to count the ribbons and stars. And then it was gone. I haven’t picked it up for twenty years now.

Somewhere back then, as it was becoming clear that my nights of playing the big night music were over, I thought I heard a deeper voice in its place, up from a different zone of the heart. Whether it was father or son of that music, who knows, but I packed my guitar pick into the blue velour pocket of my guitar case and left it there, my fingers hungry for the heft of something else, which proved a pen. Cold steel in my hand as I write, the ink which spoors across the page up from squid-depths, an ichor close to those regions where I believed the sword of song was forged, where my guitar now floated ... did one birth the other? And what else was there to say, with that big night music now gone from the surface of my life?

Gone, but not lost. Almost thirty years after I stood on a stage in claptrap barroom in Spokane Washington roaring out Foreigner’s “Dirty White Boy” and “God Save the Queen” by the Sex Pistols, I found as I began to write that sound still roaring in my deep ear, casked in a chest down in Davy Jones’ rock ‘n’ roll locker at the bottom of the sea, atop a huge boulder thrown in the primordial sea by a Titan who trying to conk his mother the moon and missed.

That big night music sure has a huge backside to it, a monster riptide. Was that the end of the next years of writing -- trying to get it all down? Were the poems that flooded out the afterburn of all those song-ended downsweeps of the guitar, exult’s exile to silence, a ringing harrow in the bones ghostly in ambition and ghastly to remember, much less romance ... I’ll probably never lift a guitar again, but the feral raw wire of hot chops at full volume lords this abyss I here write through, a sea that has proved perilous close to the one pounding real shores of a night I can’t yet fall back to sleep in. My drowned guitar is both rudder and water-level of this boat of a bed on the bridge of the worlds; my ears still hear it rocking subliminally away, entranced, terrified, and I don’t know if that sound is behind or ahead, under or over all that I here say.

Loot for a Sand Barrow

I am walking along the beach with Brendan. We go at a pace somewhere between his and mine. I hold his hand but it is indeterminate, it has no warmth, no heft. In one way I am leading him and in another he is drifting me, like two currents of varying depths, or a rough interface of Arctic and Gulf streams.

I tell him about the ship I am about to board and the treasures I will find and bring back to him, old gold coins which he can store in the sand castles that line the shore far behind us. I tell him about emeralds from South America and jade from the Orient that I will pull from the sea right next to us and lay under his pillow for him to find when he wakes up.

I know I am desperately trying to buy his attention, hoping he will remain interested, curious, entranced enough by my tale and my promise if no longer by my life; sufficient, if not to keep his hand in mine when I wake, at least to return him to this shore the next night when I dream. Will settle for that. I will settle for anything.

I don’t look down at him, I can’t, the dream won’t allow me; it’s condition for finding him is that I have to trust that it is Brendan, my son, walking next to me silently, between the land and the sea. I imagine his face as that child’s pale sleepy visage I last saw five years ago in Jan’s Honda Civic dew-misted window -- no, not quite; i imagine the boy he would be now, longer and more angular, eager to lift from the breast to his father’s voice. Not that either.

I realize there is no imagining left either, that he has slipped too far into oblivion. I just know its there, like all of the land under the sea; it’s there between the grey indeterminate hour’s breeze and its surf, those soft bluegrey eyes taking in the same scene, translating the same dream into a mind passed over to the Other World.

Brendan had his mother’s eyes. Sometimes I looked at him and saw Jan staring back. Once when he sat on the beach building a sand castle he stared at me with the look in Jan’s eyes that night she held me so tightly in that beach hotel bed and begged me to come, to bring her the son he became ... Eyes staring right out of the sea’s vast antiquity, a uteral welcome home known in the fish depths of my DNA, 500 million years down my brainstem. Is he looking at me? Or ahead where we walk and will wake? Ashore at our lost home? Or out on the wild eternal waste of old tears?

I hate this. I must know. I flounder and thrash, swim madly up from the dream, break gasping at its surface in the raging black of a broken man’s night. What have I done, why must I know? This is far far worse, this brutal inchoate bloody raw now. Can I go back? Will he join me again on that beach tomorrow night when I dream?

I will surrender. I must. There is no other escape. I will pay the Devil for his safe passage home.

I lay there sweaty and wretched, cooling as the dream dries from my aging, too-long untouched skin, raw to the hard breeze coming through the rear window as it ratchets the eaves, grieving back down into the salt bitterness of the far surf crashing amens from a son’s sand-barrow grave.

The Pilot's Tale

I call Dan that night and tell him I’m in. He grunts and then says he’ll talk with the captain the next day, and that I should probably be ready to report to the dock around 6 a.m. the day after.

“I hope you’re not dreaming of getting a lot richer,” he says. “Most of these salvage operations end about where they started, over more empty seabed, after too many hours of very hard work. I just thought you could use a little employment.”

“I don’t. And I do,” I say, hoping that’s the truth. “I worked as a steward on yachts in the Keys between semesters of college twenty years ago, you know, serving up champagne in ice buckets on the deck for geezers with young mistresses, slopping up the vomit and come-stained sheets below decks when we got back to port. Not much to remember, but I found I had good sea-legs, and I got pretty good at scenting rough weather. Since then I’ve been out a few times deep-sea fishing. My dad was in the Navy and taught me a lot of the knots when I was earning badges for the Scouts.”

“That will do, I guess,” he says, somewhat distantly. He’s thinking ahead. Or back. “Nothing they’re doing above water on that ship that you can’t handle. Just try to remember who you are. And who it’s death for you to be anymore.”

“Yeah, I remember. But thanks for the reminder.”

A short silence. “Well, I guess I should give you some of the background.”

Here is the jist of what he told me, embellished with what I heard later, further dug up on the Internet, and thought about for long after. It’s a tale of old-school larceny, a deep strata of Florida’s bum history of getting pillaged and raped for booty which never can be kept in your hands.

***

In September 1623, a ship creeps off from a Spain-bound fleet in the Straits of Florida. The boat, a twenty-gun frigate named the Senora de Cadiz, is commandeered by a pilot named Eduardo del Silvia. His nickname de l’abysmo (“of the Abyss”) was not apparently for any prowess or bad luck over deep waters as for taking his fellow sailors on harrowing dockside nekyias, careening through a downward circuit of dives of increasingly ill-tempered repute, as if a night’s roustabout could encompass every circle in Dante’s Inferno.

A true sea wolf at heart, this Eduardo apparently was in Dutch with every interest that lay at cross purposes to Spanish crown, proving intelligence for the English, dealing in stolen trade with the Dutch. Apparently on this venture he planned to deliver the Cadiz to a Dutch privateer hiding up by what is now Fort Lauderdale, pulling off from the fleet as it heading round the tip of the Florida peninusla up into the Gulf Stream.

He contrived to have that ship, well-lardered but certainly not the biggest prize in the pack, to lag and then distance, signalling to the flagship that he was having trouble with the rudder. He knew the fleet was in a hurry to get into the Stream, it being the late already in the hurricane season; Spain was desperate for lucre at that time, depending heavily on fresh stores of gold to pay off the bankers who were financing their involvement in the Thirty Years’ War. So where a fleet commander in another season of empire might have been most patient, del Silvio was allowed to lag, in the hopes that the problem would be fixed on its own and the ship would catch up in due corse. Then as night fell del Silvio invisibly turned course and headed north, up along the Florida Coast. As it happened, the next day turned rough and rougher with an approaching hurricane, and the fleet barely escaped to the northeast while the Cadiz fought its way up to the coast seeking a sheltered cove. But there was none and the on September 6 the Cadiz got whacked by the maelstrom, mauled in every way short of shipwreck for two days. By the fortune of del Silvio’s evil sire they scaped but barely, their mainmast gone, rigging a futile mess, bilges swamped, the boat listing eight degrees to port. There was no sign of the Dutch pirate at the agreed trysting-place and del Silvio bid his men (furious now that they weren’t about to share in the profit of the trade) sail up the coast toward Amelia Island where he knew he would find British ships eager to deal. Two weeks after the first hurricane another struck, and on the night of Sept. 25, 1623, the Cadiz meet its Maker at last, split and sent spiralling down to salt doom here off the north Florida coast into 100 leagues of cold silt. Only two hands survived -- a female slave and del Silvio, found two days later clinging to a length of mizzen by the British sloop Defiance.

None of this is mentioned in the official report of the loss of the Cadiz by the Marquis of Caderita, admiral of the fleet that arrived back in Spain without further incident. He simply says that the Cadiz was lost from the fleet having rudder trouble and apparently was doomed by the first hurricane. All hands and, most importantly, its valuable freight, were assumed lost.

Captain del Silvia resurfaces twelve years later in Manila, ravaged by the pox and the final stages of alcoholism, relating his tale one dank sordid night to a British pilot who would later include it in his South Sea Tales of a British Merchantman (1662), a book that enjoyed brief genre popularity around London for the summer and then disappeared. A copy of the obok turned up at a Tampa antiquities fair in the 1980s, where it was bought by an archeologist on the faculty of the University of Florida. He didn’t get around to reading the book for a decade, finding it one summer afternoon deep down a pile next to his office bookcase as he was cleaning up.

In the tale, the author, George Boggs, comes across del Silvia in a Manila dive quite in keeping with del Silvia’s penchant for bottomfeeding haunts, where “a Terrible assortment of Thugs and Brigands tossed back Pots of ill-humoured Rum, yelling and laughing and swearing foul oaths in a Fumigous and Obscene din.” The only table with an empty seat is shared by del Siliva, apparently of too ill a repute even for this honkey tonk deep in Hell. Del Silvia cadges a few quaffs of rum and then starts raving about a great fortune that may be scattered yet on the shores of Florida, one million pesos of silver and gold bullion, six chests brimming with jewelry, including a heart built with 130 matched pearls, a 74-carat emerald ring, a pink coral rosary on a gold chain beaded with pearls ... and this native artifact that was too strange and beautiful to be destroyed even by the priests, a votive gold figure inlaid with emeralds and rubies, with eyes of pearl, a wide mouth filled with inserted shark’s teeth, breasts of round-carved obsitidan, holding a small jade scimitar over its head - not apparently Mayan, maybe it had made it over on the Pacific leg from the Orient, along with the three porcelain vases that were said to be as old as they were valued ... Boggs was bemused. “The man looked like the veritable Porter of Hell, his Face pocked and ruined, his mouth a toothless Hole, pronouncing Riches beyond Measure from Days long sundered and tossed beneath the Tides of Time.” As Boggs took his leave, scaping the jaws of hell, a fight broke out behind him and he heard del Silvia scream. He looked over his shoulder and saw the Spanish pilot crumpled back in his chair, his thoat slashed wide like a red mouth, pouring the last of his bad blood over his corpse.

The UF professor was definitely interested in the reference (taking up only a page in the book). Wrecks from the Spanish fleet had been successfully salvaged by Mel Fisher over the past twenty years, but it was known that many ships were still out there. He knew of a friend, a salvage boat operator, who had been looking for the Cadiz for the past five years, only far to the south where the offiical report had assumed it was lost. So one day he calls this friend down in Satellite Beach and says he’s come across something which suggests that the wreck of the Cadiz lies further north up the coast. The guy -- a Mike Riordan -- takes to the fresh treasure spoor like shark to chum, and agrees to take up the search on for a fee-upon-salvage basis with a shared percentage of the total haul.

That’s who is out there a half mile in the water east of my house, and tomorrow I will try to get aboard that boat and bend my back to the task of finding del Silvia’s stolen ghost fortune that has sprawled for centuries on the dark sea bed.

Deep Water Crow's Nest

I read from Moby Dick for most of the afternoon, sitting in the faded Adirondack chair on the back deck. The day remains overcast, indefinite, grey, the surf’s machinery toiling quietly, deep in the mills of the known day.

For obscure reasons, my reading these days takes me into deep waters. I travel with the Pequod into the mid-Pacific Ocean, the fat book in my lap oracular, singing to or from a conch deep in my ear. I don’t know if this spell has been brewed from all of the big books I’ve read over the year (among them Gravity’s Rainbow, Finnegans Wake, Shakepeare’s tragedies, the Odyssey and Beowulf, Goethe’s Faust, Conrad’s sea-tales, the Vitae Brendae and Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridean, Faulkner’s verbal spells and Don DeLillo’s laser-sharp sentences), or simply the sum of so many cadences settled down the vast tonnage of turned pages, but I find myself getting increasingly lost in this reading, into big spaces that both terrify and excite me, stir me in ways that there doesn’t seem to be a precise name for, as if I were hearing gnostic scriptures being read out loud on the undersides of the page, written there by a hand that feels obliquely familiar and yet maddeningly black, black, black ...

Melville’s ocean sloshes and washes and tides in my ear, hearkening me to a road to everywhere, pregnant with abysms and shores ... There is a Door this wild and strange tribe of Authors open with their sentences, revealing not so much the world as its subterranean barrows, leading me down deeper hallways all lined with sea-mirrors, refractions of personal depth, shared intimacy, some profoundly resonant bass note racing shore to shore through the nation of verbal souls living and dead.

Dark and cold, brutal and wild: this is the general heft in the verbal undertow, thunderous with the gait of a Long Man in the tongue, ancient, cruel, irreproachable: How could anyone love such a song? Yet I do. Some deepest part in me sings back, thrilling to the sound of it, greeting it like the Cliffs of Moher shudder and scream something pent with orgasm and death as massive North Sea waves collide into them.

Melville thought he writing one book when he started Moby Dick, but it took off on him. Something leapt from his ambition to write a better sea-tale, rising from depths which apparently were revealed for the first time to him in the months which preceded and led through the writing of the book. He was doing some deep reading at the time, going through all of Shakespeare’s tragedies--enthralled with the poet’s “blackness” -- and, about the same time, read Hawthorne’s Mosses at an Old Manse, whose essential courage to peer into a “blackness of the darkness beyond.” Add to this stack Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein was also on the list, giving Ahab the creator’s ambition to track down the monster he had raised, and the sea he voyaged the crew of the Pequod over become far, far deeper and wilder. He felt that was writing two books, for two audiences perhaps, the peanut gallery and the court of the ages; or perhaps it was the difference between the goings-on of the surface tale and the wild black wings married to the tale from far under, providing sail and rudder for a hoarier, more Biblical story than could ever be related in any safely-heated Nantucket inn. One book’s “unfathomable cravings [drank] his blood,” he reflected back after completing the novel; “the other only [demanded] his ink.”

Et tu, c’est moi. Have the years of deep readings gestated this hard, low, granitic voice in my wildest affections, wilder than any depth I could have reached in a bottle, a depth I was seeking in all of the wrong dives? Does Man Reading become a gospel of words? Of late, neuroscientists have been attaching electrodes to the heads of meditating Tibetan monks; the research indicates that areas of the brain were activated and channeled via the mediation, re-writing the neural trade-routes, overwriting instinctual ones with their more conscious others, so that sexual gratification becomes a greater sympathy, compassion. All of this defies the conventional neurscientific literature which states that chemistry affects mood, our mental ills curable through pharmaceuticals .... Does deep reading similarly morph the neural chemistry, amplifying or weighting the blue end of the verbal thalamus, making ever-more audible the voices of angels, changing the entire brain’s chorus, weighting it with a sea-warding boom?

If so, to what purpose? Is it an archetypal reflex, innate to the species, a dark drowned hall reaching back to the first articulations on the million-year savannah? I speak, therefore I am ... that’s what writers say ... But to what end now, with the whole nation of Authorship threatened by the rising tide of nonverbal media, its institutions fading, libraries succumbing to indifference and disuse, mandarin academics arguing Texts into specie of postmordern white noise ... The Book like a ship split on rocks of modernity, its contents scattered and lost on a shore where digital images cavort and scream and jism mute agons of futurity. Words are a booty no longer tenderable anywhere, readers having lost critical interest, turned to other media, their antennae blunted, no longer moved by plainchant, no longer patient or cohesive enough to read novels, write poems, peruse a lifetime of writing.

With the reality of the state of the Book is so dim and zeroing, am I so stirred by my reading by a grand jester, a mocking cruel voice? Is it the laughter of Death? In her novel Veronica, Mary Gaitskill wrote, “The more withered the reality, the more gigantic and tyrannical the dream.” Thus the big night music I hear in my ear, in precise alternation to the small day music of the known? Cormac McCarthy picks up the same thread in The Road: “When your dreams are of some world that never was or of some world that never will be and you are happy again then you will have given up.”

That’s what this big stirring feels like in the deep end of my reading, a happiness bordering on doom. Does this grand voice herald its end, that coming day when the last words sink below the surface and disappear for good? Does it provide then comfort for the final walk over to the other side? Is that why I’m smiling so as I rouse from “The Honor and Glory of Whaling,” Melville sings of this deep singing’s tribe:

Nor do heroes, saints, demigods and prophets alone compose the whole roll of our order. Our grand master is till to be named, for like royal kings of old times, we find the headwaters of our fraternity in nothing short of the great gods themselves. That wonderful oriental story is now rehearsed from Shaster, which gives us the dread Vishnoo, one of the three persons in the godhead of the Hindoos; gives us this divine Vishnoo himself for our Lord; — Vishnoo, who, by the first of his ten earthly incarnations, has for ever set apart and sanctified the whale.

When Bramha, or the God of Gods, saith the Shaster, resolved to recreate the world after one of its periodic dissolutions, he gave birth to Vishnoo, to preside over the work; but the Vedas, or mystical books, whose perusal would seem to have been indispensible to Vishnoo before beginning the creation, and which must have contained something in the shape of practical hints to young architects, these Vedas were lying at the bottom of the waters; so Vishnoo became incarnate as a whale, and sending down to the uttermost depths, rescued the sacred volumes. Was not this Vishnoo a whalemen, then? ever as a man rides a horse is called a horseman?

Ur-god, ur-poet, ur-song, ur-boat all voyaging from a text rescued from the bottom of the sea -- that’s where Melville found the ribs of his ship, before and after Ishmael opened his mouth. Down on the beach the day rolls on dull and lustreless, still freighted with the grey principalities of sky and sea, dutifully toiling and droning beneath flocks of breezes which stroll in, crossing the porch this way then that. Me in this saddle of a chair with Moby Dick as my horse, hanging on for dear life as the beast gallops and dives and breeches and blows. None of it relevant to the ship aways offshore wanton for real gold, or the young lovers walking down the beach in the dreamy postfuck uterals of awakening love, or the graves of my wife and son back in the interior, sailing silently on in their coffins while I remain here.

***

Whatever rouses deep in my reading, it has the dark proximity of dreams, and whatever it means or signifies, I will know it to the same futile extent I understand my dreams -- darkly. The deeper my nights fell into the bottle, the wilder my dreams, baroque technicolor rollercoaster rides through vampire cities under mountains, doing battle with chain-wielding skinheads and world-ending monsters to terrible to look at, much less name. Did such feral magnificence, soaked in cartoonish colors, calibrate an Other which was hue of my empty nights in reverse, those desaturated, zero-bandwidth grayshouldered immramas down to a forever not-empty enough whiskey glass? Like binaries, my dream and that reality, the former always at right angles to my zero, trumpeting an orchestral doom in each night’s looming wave.

But how can we know dreams, being Other than our knowledge, always the precinct of darkened minds, a substrate older than the Devonian Sea, glowing daily as the fuse by which all life is lamped and wardend and furthered? If dreams are what I can’t know, then how am I to ever understand them, position them with any utility? Jonah dreams of far shores in the belly of Leviathan, of serving girls pouring wine, their nipples huge and roseate pressing against gauzy blouses, their eyes like green seaglass afire with summer suns: And wakes in the excremental stench of the worst seas, pillowed by bowels lumpy with squid, the whole shittiness of creation ... Is not Jonah’s agony clarified and raised to its greatest intensity by his dream, as if the archangel Michael himself wielded its lysis, cleaving him at the precise center of his darkest sin? So we seem to believe, and thus Jonah repented, cried out for mercy, made his promise to Obey ... and woke from his nightmare on the soft shores of the world, never to dream of shore girls again.

Now that I live by the sea, it figures less visibly in my dreams. More the jaw-proscenium which swallows me, harrowing my way back to an interior I have lost, so that the surf breeze is Jan’s breath in my ear as I slowly wake in our bedroom, afraid to wake further, knowing if I do I will lose her, the way I once dreamed of clutching a thirteen thousand dollar bill tightly, tightly in my hand, waking with a corner of my sweat-stained pillow crunched uselessly there. Her breath sursurrating back to the liquid vowels of the sea, as impossible to hold onto as a fistful of sand. The ocean now is the Interior, my lost life fully the Other, and i dream of her belly, pale and warm and sweaty as my own presses against it, angling my hips and cock deeper into her as her hands squeeze and knead my asscheeks, and she begs me to come, to deliver our son unto her. Come, the waves sing in the vast disaster of first light, come; muting as I wake to the harsher sound of gone, gone, gone ...

Day now fading from the shore, immutably greyer and steelier and darker. The salvage ship rocking and toiling at roughly the same spot for the past few hours; they must have found the wreck. What the hell. What the hell. I need something more than too many words in this chair high up the mainmast of a vastly old ship. Wild and turgid and deeply resonant, yes, but what’s to echo down empty shores? Let Ishamel row on home, I pray. Let him get on to the next tale, even if he must board a savage coffin to get there ...

Sun Ghetto

Don and I outside after the meeting, him smoking a cigarette, me chewing gum, the both of us watching early afternoon traffic school up and down US-1 in the blind profanes of commerce. He’s looking much more relaxed than when he came in, finding the air he couldn’t find alone, answered within himself, between sides of self.

“Thanks for talking last night,” he gruffs, squinting at a ravaged El Camino as it chortles by.

“Helped me probably more than it helped you,” I mutter. “I need to remember how close it can be sometimes. Especially when I don’t think it’s that close, when time away lulls me into thinking I’ve got this thing licked.”

“Three years sober, and you’re still not safe?”

“I know I’m not safe on my own. Too many solitary hours creep me up and bite me in the ass with memories of my wife and kid, singing lullabies straight out of a whiskey bottle. So I have to stay close to here.”

He doesn't reply, just keeps reading traffic, indexing, sorting, flagging. Looking for parts in the pattern, the presence of dark weaves just under the wake. Of dorsal fins, semaphoring invisible jaws. Even though he’ll never get behind the wheel of a cruiser again, long experience has forever trained his gaze.

Something else he’s thinking about too, tabulating those exterior motions of darkness and light to sum to a decision. He seems to surface, close enough to a final thought. “This morning they brought in some interesting stuff -- clay jugs, more doubloons. Best of all the anchor, three hundred and fifty pounds of old Spain-forged iron, so encrusted with barnacles you’d think it was a pure lump of seabed. The crew looked like kids on Christmas Eve. Stuck around only long enough to gas up and load on grub and extra diving gear.”

“So what happens when they locate the wreck?”

“Dispatch someone on the hot foot to stake their claim with the state and stay quieter than a dead man til the claim is on record. Triple the diving crew and start salvage operations round the clock.”

A kid on a Ninja hauls south on US-1 in a tear, the motorcycle's engine farting loud and high as it whips the terrible figure -- a boy, really -- about and around cars.

Don clenches his fists then relaxes, loosing a long sigh. He looks back at me. “You know, if you’re interested in getting in on the salvage I could talk to the skipper. He owes me a favor from the old life. They are going to need some extra hands on the boat to help with the topside part of the salvage. Might give you something more to do than just sit in a chair watching the ocean all day. A guy could get lost there.”

I told him to let me think about it overnight and let him know at the next meeting. The last thing I need is an adventure in la la land, but it might be fun to help haul up the booty. Besides, he’s right: the last thing a drunk needs is time and money, and I have far more of both than I know what to do with.

He grunts and walks off, hunched over, old, healing in the slow way that kills many folks before they get there. Unlocks a beat-up old Schwinn from where its chained to a trash can, heaves himself up and weaves down the parking lot and waits for an opening and traffic and then lumbers out and across, almost indifferent to the horn of an semi coming up from the South.

***

Driving back to the house, I pass through old beachfront communities whose star -- or sun -- has long faded. A sun-ghetto of sorts, everything looking hammered by the long season’s annihilate light, still harsh now, down at the nadir of winter. I’m passed by an older guy riding a Harley with a blonde woman hanging on from behind; the guy is wizened but still has long brown hair tied back in a ponytail, his bare arms emerging from a leather vest tanned deeply, wears lots of jewelry on his fingers -- unrepentently and desperately liplocked on youth. The woman is probably in her mid-thirties, pretty enough to seem improbable sitting behind him, everything in the right place, breasts heaving against the guys's back, her arms around his waist, ass like a bottomless heart beating in my eyes as the dude speeds on ahead of us. Neither wear helmets.

Maybe its the torpid license of beachside living, but everyone seems both way young and too old, permanently at leisure, in defiance of the middle way of life with its hard work and home-building routines. At least that’s the way my bruised daimon prefers that I see things today. And though I haven’t held a shot to my lips in years it still burns there, urging me to delay here, where it is always dangerous to wish for more leisure than I am due, more welcome in the summer than I may survive.

Whatever: in these sea-warding, dessicated, overbright neighborhoods and strip malls and trailer parks there is a feral ambience, a self-evicting willingness to rot in dissembling heat, to drink it to the dregs, savoring the brilliance even as it burns every inch of the skin, the soul.

Here in Florida where new settlements raise their roofs from swampy tundra by the hour, it doesn’t take long for them to age, trending downward into low and and lower valuations, becoming tracts for the elderly and the underemployed, eventually abandoned of all notice, disappearing beneath a throttling canopy of vines and kudzu. ... By the beach these suburbs continue in notice because the beachside arterials are still trafficked. Besides, even ruin close to the beach is a growth industry, attracting new falling faithful every year. US-1 here is in bad repair, the pavement cracked and tarred so many times that it looks like the weather-scarred hide of those beach walkers who endlessly trudge the sands -- dry, durable, indominable -- And the trailer parks and apartment complexes just seem to smoulder more deeply into their pyres, soldering themselves down into miasmal tracts of earth long leeched of moisture.

All this embues these regions with a dark, viciously sweet eros, goaty, furious, swaggering, so that simply living as such close proximity to the worst forms of sea- and sun-worship is a form of copulation, hundreds of thousands of aging votives getting their temple nookie in vast hot salty draughts, wallowing in the cancerous undrinkable light, pickling their rotten souls in Southern Comfort and marijuana noons, ripening and rotting on the boughs of an infernal tribe’s grove, smiling with blackened teeth sharpened for pleasantry. These are fatassed suburbs with saggy tits and too much jewelry, fuckable most exactly because they have fallen so far, sunk so deep below sea level that the pristine gloss of the each day by the sea has the appeal of a forever lost childhood--addictive, deadly, becalmed.

I’ve had so many blackout drunks in the rooks and nooks of this party suburb, losing it on Daytona’s boardwark and the Cocoa Beach pier, starting to drink at 9 in the morning and on through the daylight hours and dissembling into night, knocking back shots of tequilia as I nursed long-neck Buds, watching the brilliant sea crash and fold around surfboarders, the beach like a flame, the far ocean like a blue dream ... The jukebox playing everything from “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay” to Christopher Cross’s “Sailing” to “Train Train” by Blackfoot and “Panama” by Van Halen, all of those hard-partying beach anthems that put the salt thirst on us, translating reverence into revenance, the black road of desire ... Drunkenness like a beached whale at some tideline which marks the ghastly precincts of those suburbs, wholly given over to the shore which runs at black angles to the waking one ... I’ve gone down on waitresses and welfare mothers hauled off from those bars, lapping at pussies as if to drown myself there, heading down to a wreckage of self so familiar that whatever I took there I broke some larger piece of what remained of my heart. And coming to there, first light like shards of glass shrieking through grimy small windows in laughing contempt, my night’s partying partner out cold, dead drunk, sinking out of sight ...

I watch that woman on the back of the Harley and want her desperately, want to be the aging knight of motlen swords who is driving her; to be given over to fatal surrender and endless depths once again, to live out my last hours like the bum hero of “Leaving Las Vegas,” still as death on a bed surrounded by empties as the sun swaddles the room with a womblike fury, cremating my bones into ash finer than sand, my ends something breezed back to the waves ...

The Sioux say such desire is the blue or black road which runs east to west, the direction of selfish error, exiled from any tribe. It runs through my history, it’s pickled in regions of my brain that makes me ache for awfulness at the entire cost of a useful and good life: Always a part of me walks that road, seeking the blasted trailer parks at its end, plunging into nights of waste and ruin, diving toward the bottom of a bottomless glass. Yes, well. But today I just keep driving north, watching the guy on the Harley with the woman holding on turn right, headed for their beach of consummation while I just head home, sad and small and negligible though it be.

Strange Gold (Meeting Notes)

It was good to see Don, the ex-state trooper, sitting at the table of our noon AA meeting that day; good that he had gotten through his worst hours of alcohol starvation, good too that I was there to hear him talk about it during the meeting, reminding me that I was not alone and that this remains a desperately earnest business, no matter how much time in the program one gets under their belt. The drunk has distilled into the brain, burned into one’s destructive synapses; time for this dark Presence is a less cohesive strategem than for the waking mind, history eclipses in one night, and many long years of slow steady work evaporate in the first shot. There’s never any second or third drink or bottle, only the next, always the one we reach for thinking we’ll get there this time, this next greedy sip. This work of sobriety never stops, although it usually labors beneath the surface of the day, in its blue interior.

A woman named Shay who’s been a member of the group about a year now told some more of her story, how she linked with criminal boyfriends of every stripe with their easy access to opiates, dope-pushing bikers and and fraudulent investment bankers, traders in booted freight and chop-chop auto parts and meth-addict identity thieves. They all had larcenous smiles and fat wallets, keeping her on wild display at backwoods parties where the girls wrested in coleslaw and out on yachts careening over dazzling waters.

She drank them all under the table, stole their drugs and fucked their best friends, heisted jewelry from their mother’s houses and pocketed their silverware. Every night got wilder and meaner, candescent with the bulb of her body burning too brightly, flaring out. Every waking was a death, coming to the raw exhaustion and finitude of the same incarceration in self. A ruin so loud in her heart that she couldn’t bear to look in the mirror. Then the downward spiral from that bottom into bottomlessness, dancing partner to partner through a change of less and less winning men, still free in the wallet -- that was the absolute condition -- but more wounded, crueller, airless: Tandem shadows of that tidal bole she’d become as her life sucked down its drain.

One guy beat her badly, breaking her jaw and tearing off one of her nipples; another forced her to gang bang his boys. Then she was aboard a party boat for what seemed like weeks in an almost total blackout, fed whatever by a handsome man who proved to be the true abyssal Lucifer of them all, a hitman whose specialty was the knife and who kept a side trade in arms and babies and whose hobby was slowly poisoning women. This bottom feeder of the heart’s night was her darkest lover, the one her addiction was desperately seeking, and fell swoonly into him, shakier and paler each day from the doses of arsenic he mixed in her tumblers of Myer’s rum and pineapple juice.

Had she not fallen overboard one night in a near-death stupor and been left behind to drown, she would probably have not lived past the dawn; as it was, she floundered a few moments and then just gave up, praying to her childhood’s God to take her home. And bumped into some mass heavy in the water which proved to be a rogue bale of dope. Strange vehicle of grace, but she took it as a divinely offered hand and held on with all that was left in her. The next morning she was found by a Coast Guard cutter that was rounding up the bales, sent to the hospital where she slowly recovered from the poison and then entered a three-month rehab where she grabbed onto AA with all the fertile desperation of those one door short of doom. Sober three years now, she’s in law school and sponsors a lot of women from the same treatment program.

“You know, I never thought of going any other way, once I tasted the booze,” Shay finished. It was always Out There, toward the darkest region, into the arms fo the wildest men. It was like a thirst for something that turned out to be at the bottom of all that, beyond even the bottle itself. Who would have figured that at the bottom of the bottle was a door that opened into here, revealing all the treasure I always wanted. Strange gold, hmmm.” She thanked the group for allowing her to share and shut up. We nodded quietly. Discussion moved on through the room.

Anchorite of Noir

Some mornings I bundle up and take a thermos of coffee down to the lifeguard’s chair on the beach and climb up to the crow’s nest for my daily matin with God. The raw actualities of the sea night provide a further, more permeable border of where I end and He begins than my living room chair. I’m like an anchorite up in his wilderness tree or desert tower, in solitary union with the infinite. Today at 4 a.m. the wind is blowing harder, gusts of 25 knots swaying the chair in its heavy wood girders. Incoming rollers are ragged, breaking their whitecaps far out; I imagine those pale occurrences in the mash of the sea’s shoreward collapse to be the tonsures of an order assembling here for first prayers, in this small chapel hidden from the world. That salvage boat still out there a mile or so, rocking in rough waters, nosing the black sea like a hound. Up and down the shore its empty and dark, no moon tonight (it’s overcast), all the beach houses and condos vacant or dead asleep, shuttered and black, scarabs inlaid on the coffin of some long-fallen hero.

I settle, sipping coffee, my thoughts woven into the wind’s muscular loom. This is no trade wind circulating warmth deep in the loins: it’s harder, approaching from the northeast. The breeze massages my face, probing, phrenologizing, querying; I can sense its far origins, back through the splayed knees of an Irish dolmen, up into Scandinavia and Iceland, back to the Hyperborean mouth of Thor, whose breath fonts the north wind, whose chest realms the empire of Infrann, that frozen kingdom which can only be accessed down wells and into the footers of abbeys, deep under the polar icecaps, a vivid lucent eerie spectral heart of hearts: A fallen, senile, morally exhausted keep.

What is the distemperment of age which so hoards its own spent youth? It’s a weird composition, this old man’s dream of the gambolling young fool, reveling in his furious hardon, drinking those memories like a satyr draining the cup of Bacchus, revealing depths of need still as ruddy and pent and aching though the years have dessiccated every sign of it from the flesh.

I sit in my tall tall chair, draining the last of my coffee from the thermos, settling deeper into my wrap of blankets, rocked by winds which know me though I will never be able to name them. There is a stage nearby (isn’t there always?) and the combo has started playing an old standard, ah yes, now that’s a tune, how it pulls out memory’s swollen breast, proffering its nipple’s font of dreamy enactments, staining cheeks and mind with the purities of encounter and love, far in the rooky depths of wrong nights. -- A slow, bluesy, meditative, all-night harrow which has an apt nickname: Noir ...

Noir is one of the heart’s favorite genres, the guilty pleasure of going low on the wrong side of town too late at night for any sweet savor to thrive, though it does, getting the silvergold ending, against all odds, winning the big one in the end. Noir’s bed lies deep in the night and is calyxed in the blue-to-black spectra of the senses: you know you’re approaching it when you hear the sound of distant traffic on the intercoastal highway, or a woman’s laugh in a parked car across the street, or the soft rustlings of the breeze on a faintly-crashing surf where somewhere nearby glasses clink, the safety of a .38 clicks off like a brastrap.

You can’t find any of its hot spots unless you’re willing to go down, way down, below any bottom you swore you’d never trespass. That’s what give noir its infernal heat and heart ... An opus contra naturuum, backassward, upside down, sensible to the underworld way which is reverse to our own, the way dreams reflect the day in a darkblue glass ... Bathysphere divers observe how light leeches away as they descend, the left or high end of the spectrum slowly fading to the right or low side.Reds are the first to go, somewhere below 100 feet -- speared fish leak green blood; next to desaturate are the yellow-greens, an absence which is marked by the surging presence of blues which leaden into darker and more bellicose octaves, slowly vaulting into pure violet noir, there on the bridge to absolute darkness, a hue matched by the absolute zero of interstellar cold, by the absolute moral entropy of desperate n'erdowells at night ...

I have had my bad season of placing all my chips on that felt, lamped by the eerie phosphors of the wilds that thrive there -- all dayside semblances dissolved by the whiskey, hungry party animal loosened at last from his cage of everyday light. Noir seduces the wolf end of libido with the scent of blood and pussy, drumming his heartbeat at the tempo of furious rock n roll -- I imagine here the windstorm of that Roxy Music anthem, “The Thrill of it All” centered by the thunderous hooves of the drummer pounding away on his kit while Brian Ferry sings, “I will drink my fill / ‘Til the Thrill is You.” ... Indeed. I have indulged noir as one of the headier opiates of my bad nights, reading its manifesto as the next grand excuse for immoral excess, my mind afire with “Miami Vice” art-deco last-light greens and corals, visual oratory to inspire anarchist appetites which blew myself up at every chance I got.

You would never know such a life exists, keeping to narrow rooms and heated similes, as Rilke put it. But stray or trespass to those depths out of curiosity or desire, and you’ll find a nation at furious play in the bathypelagic depth of three to five hundred feet, translatable to the hours of ten p.m. and closing time; fall even farther and you’re in the bentric zone of minus 750 feet, tearing it up in the bottle clubs and backroom poker parties and bordello cuntfests where a much wilder, darker, feral and dissembled tribe feeds with a frenzy wild in the doom of the coming of day.

And they only come out, or up, at night. The juicy nougat of the whole circular appetite of the sea centers in vast acres of plankton which descend to a certain depth by day, feeding on the sun’s light further down, and then rising at night, bouyed by the infernal ballast of hunger. The food chain follows, each feeding on and then fed upon by the next. You can’t see it from the surface until late at night when the sea gets an eerie lucence to its darkness and suddenly the wake is alive with the leaps and swirls of schools of fish feeding this way then that, sharks mashing through like hammers of teeth, chum everywhere on joyfully stained fish-mouths, all of those greedy flat eyes jacked and wild, spooned from the quicksilver black sea.

No wonder carnivals at night have such wild allure, winging into a patch of field just beyond a small town’s last border, setting up a garish infrastructure of abandon, beaconing dull citizens out of their hearthside torpor for a night on the wild side, offering delights big and small, innocuous and naughty. Gaudy neon cars whirling up and down, round and round, faster and faster, tearing terrified raucously laughing voices hither an yon, hurling loose chain and the occasional spout of vomit onto onlookers below. Teens throwing baseballs at ninepins on the fairway, miming their favorite big-league pitcher as they try to win rough-looking stuffed animals for their girlfriends, hoping such noblesse will cashier later into a further advance under pink sweaters and beneath poodle skirts. While in more private tents the undersides of pink knickers are lifted with a saucy smile by Miss Alexandria of Peoria, wafting a view of the closer and sweeter heavens across a hungry sea of men’s slackjawed faces, like a scent of Eden in full orchid bloom. That’s the noir voltage, verboten and thick-cabled; once the switch is flipped the jones for its earthy epiphanals is nigh-cathedral, black-massy, a blueblack riptide of devotion, hauling everything out in its wake. In the physics of noir desire, least is most and darkest is the secret lair of scalding enactment. Roguery is the lucre of the realm, calling for a certain deft touch and balance negotiating footfalls between abysms -- here is where heists and hijacks are pulled off or blown to smithereens in their tracks. Here is where hearts are thieved, thighs cracked wide with the seducer’s thin smile, gold snekey-peted out with all the honey talk of big-screen romance, only to be snuck out the back door in the deadest a.m.’s of the night before love in faith awakens to the hymenals of dawn.

No wonder the Greek god Hermes was honored by stacking stones (or herms) at the borders of things: He could steal bright Apollo’s cattle and then escape immolation at the hands of that outraged divinity by turning around and fashioning a lyre from a killed turtle’s shell, singing praises to Zeus in an aural magnitude that suckerpunched Apollo, art Father, with a jones for song. Hermes gave him the gift of song -- marrying desire’s mean and ends, coiling them round a caduceus which thralls all listeners with joy, tears and sleep -- and then went on his way with Apollo’s purloined purse in his loins, all that bullion to lay on the road, coins of passage, booty of wiseacres and fraud. That’s Hermes playing the blues in the in the honkeytonks after midnight, sweaty 12-bar progressions which you can also hear in those diners where each booth has a juke player, playing too from the radios of every roadster parked on a dark lane off the main highway where the players are in the back seat, dancing prone to the muddy waters and whiskey surf.


A music both smitten and blasted, blessing sin at its worst as it whistles away turning the safe’s dial, counting off the cylinders right and left, feeling for harmonics of: plunder, Pluto, plausible joy, each click signalling a revolve in the other way, over the same dark depth whose topographies and leys must be felt with the souls of the fingertips, that further border of touch, on to the next click, the return back the other way, sweeping pole to pole til the final click which cracks wide the heavy safe door, revealing a bright lode, or cashiers the last cylinder in the barrel where the bullet is found, Russian roulette concluding with a worlds-loud Amen, or the woman sighs and lies back at last, opening wide like a flower to receive the immortal freight of the the sun’s gold ...

But it isn’t just about desire and its beachheads, is it? There’s no accounting for noir without out its ebbings and low tides, its rip currents of departure and abandonment, all of those empty hours crucified short of embrace. Those waves coming in know the score, travelling three thousand miles to collapse and scatter their freight of: foam, salt, shattered whelks, Ophelian locks of seaweed. Always Eurydice here, gone, her voice remaindered in the surf, all that survives with the survivors ... I see Jan standing in this surf on one summer’s morning years ago, staring at me with her back to the sea, smiling, head cocked, eyes dreamy and pure following a night of engendering love -- we declared Brendan’s origin on that night -- her bikini somewhat loose on her, she having lost weight that year, subsiding more on passion than food, coming to our bed’s table with the same furious appetite -- how we tore at each other, trying to get into each other, beyond the boundaries of hip against hip, bites and scratches, rug-burned knees, sore pussy and raw cock ... A sea filling those early nights, fullest here, long after the last kiss, the fatal goodbye ... Ah noir must bear this blasted state, this salt obliteration of the heart, ferrying this human wreckage to every fateful harbor left on the main, til every mortal deed is at last done ... Limn the visage of our blackandwhite hero with this ebb tide, shape his eyes like driftglass, resound in his heart with that sighing, empty drone of waves spent and lost, gone, gone ... Without such exhaustion there can be no spark, no leap of impossible hope, the true gin of noir ... Not that I have it now, but in my imagination its small flame tenders, gestating with the knowledge that waves return and return.

As you can see, I have a heart for noir’s conceits if small stomach for its actual graveside ends. But that’s why noir is a genre, something to be read and recounted and reshelved, comforts perhaps for those who never quite leave their narrow rooms and heated similes. Readers of noir are like Ishmael aboard the Pequod, that black melancholy ship awash on voyeur booze. That book, you know, is noir gospel, its gnostic ship of fools like a neon green-and-red “Hit Me!” sign blinking out in the blackest arras of night. Ahab is the seared and stricken rigging in the later Bogart’s face, years after “Casablanca.” And Moby Dick is the Bergman he remembers, the big one that got away by dint of career arrogance and spleen, bearing a brace of his vaulting ambitions struck in her side, side up in the mess of other actors and directors and producers and casting agents and two-bit Hollywood gossip-mag reporters who tried to get a piece of her in their own salt tales. The malevolence of that whale is the night’s purgatory of her: wages of every carnal sin, backwash of hubris, jaws of one’s own wounded pride sawing clean through mortal pursuits, the sere humility of days ... They are fated to meet again so the story goes, breeched in some nameless assbin off the Straits of Japan, some indifferent next night off the maps of any decent trade route, in a dive where black-hearted men feast on whale steak and grog. There She waits, soft-lit and fragile among the sooty ochres of last year’s annihilations, smoking a long cheroot, listening with moist eyes as the piano man plinks out those lush bittersweet arias of lost love. You see nothing but another black night, an indifferent eternal wash of someone else’s tears -- the God of geologic heavens, that million-year downpour which filled up the seas -- awash on the cruel main of solitary passage: and yet She is everywhere, immanent, rising .... Stare down into those waters of noir long enough and you’ll see something pale and indistinct gather and sharpen in your imagination, clarifying as it rises, quickly assuming the shape of a heart-wide smile, with so many perfect pearlies that you haven’t finished counting the bottom row before the top row has guillotined down, cutting off the surface umbilicus of apparent passage, hurling you ass over teakettle down the stinkypink glottals of Love’s deepest world-shaker, depositing you spluttering and terrified in the reeky gut of consummation, the death of one enterprise, the beginning of another. Everything goes down to it, ship’s timbers split from below, sea filling the keel, spinning it round as it it falls down the maw, masts cracking like sea-biscuits, men screaming in a half dozen argots the less formal names of God, the air overhead a cacaphonous spiral of of sea-birds, camp-followers who up till that very last moment was there to feed on what gets tossed, carcasses of stripped whales, table-scraps, heads and guts of fish caught from on board ... all of that gone, and the birds protest a loss they are now free of, like a jazz combo playing on in the club after closing time, singing the night’s endless combustions into pure notation, riffs and bridges and solos honked and brushed and sung throatily and hoarse, angelic enough despite the steely blue grip of heroin in their fingers, predetermining runs and stops and death come first light.

Because noir is a revenant that shutters down at dawn, end of story, game over: Look out over the sea now, pearly and cerulean, coral and gold where the sun has lifted over the marge like a fat red jewel of fresh desire, the skies racing back to the left end of the spectrum at night’s paling, blues chasing violet up to the high surface of the sky, the night beast taking wing for those black heights, diving once again down the depths of the sea, down where its latest treasure and haul, the Pequod, lies like a bride on a buccaneer’s bed, the final plunder. Ahab’s noir dream comes true from within ... now gone. Just a few gulls hover over the rollers, squawking faint grace notes over the tide’s gleaming offering of shells, farming this next day’s waking enterprise in a graceful, dutiful, right-sized light, making the beach and the foaming ends of each wave gauzy, like the spooled-out ends of dreams, while a few lone early wakers walk in silhouette against in the sun, bluegrey ligatures of what remains, reading their own liturgies, about their own specie of matins. Far out I see the salvage boat, another dark blue shape to contend with, there at the far dazzling end of the rising sun’s gold trail, as if it were the source of all light, not the sun.

Dream Cable

A long empty corridor, up from a hole in a lake, down into a hill, slowly winding to a shore. The dream set is something like that. My footsteps, my slow low breaths, my plodding heart make the only sounds. It is very dark, I can’t make the framed objects hanging on the wall, but they remind me that I’m still a married father, that I, too, am framed by memory. I know they’re close, Jan and Brendan, sleeping on either side of me in oblivion; their shapes press against the walls as I walk. I press my hands against that surface and feel the cool presence of them, dreaming of me walking on the sward of a sidhe, singing their names. The hall turns and twists, never reaching any juncture or decisive turn, like a snake or a river or an artery or a bowel. Or an umbilicus. History rages on silently above. I sense powers and principalities at war on the surface, the deeply laid cable of my mind recording binary bursts and flashes, the pressure-wake of salvoes reaching down this far, bllllllsure-wake of salvoes reaching down this far, blood raining on the surface, the shapes of ships and men slowly plummeting down from above, all to be woven, like strands, into the coax hemp which looms down my spine. I walk on. The darkness is black and yet blue, silvery, ghostly, stirred by my steps, as if I, the dream’s unearthly protagonist, were a Photographer’s hand, the monkey who stirs the Master’s emulsion. Something will come into focus at some end of this hall. I will rise from this bath, my soul’s image saturated with red light while it sets in a visage of clarity. A son of the new day. My eyes open and I lay here in this drifting coracle of a bed at the shore of the world in the dead of all nights, hours from any solace of dawn. There is no place like home, there is no place like home, there metaphoric presence. What’s left of them are now loosely gathered and tossed covers, the rubbish of waking, sweat-stained winding sheets for one life which I must rise from and leave behind, like a fish from its sea, and walk down the shore which could be a deeper bed for all I know, or a road, or simply an bar where all eternity comes to drink. A coin ahead on those sands, washed in from the sea, my dream’s doubloon, glinting, winking only for a moment before being hauled back by a wave, gone by the time Iis no place like home: does Dorothy rouse back in History like a witch fallen from Heaven? No trace of Jan or Brendan in the sheets as I get up, they have already swum down from any tactile sheets as I get up, they have already swum down from any tactile get here, yawning, scratching my balls, rummaging up: coffee, pen and paper, a strand leading back to that dark cable which barrows this tale.

Booty

I’m not much of a night person, or maybe my sleeping mind is very much of a night persona. I love getting up too early too much. When I was 5 years old, I would wake with this great excitement, flush with the knowledge that “The Lone Ranger” would be on TV at 6 a.m. That vivid greed to join the day remains with me to this day; the chair which waits for me in the living room each morning is like a saddle my haunches leap for, straight up out of the depths of sleep like a breeching whale. Reaching for that gold coin in all certainty that it’s there, somewhere just above, ahead. I tucker out usually before 10 a.m., -- no duh, by then my day’s already had a long march. Maybe I’ve simply learned on which side of the night I belong. In my boozing years there was always a sense of violation in heading out for the night’s immrama through the bars; the breathing, seething darkness seemed stern and occluded, remote, sighing scornfully with each step I took further out the door. I hada passport but I was no citizen; my desires and needs were suspect, even criminal, and out there in the party vistas I always found myself trying to wedge or sandwich into, insinuate myself inside the borders of that noctal disdain. The later I stayed, the more foreign the bar’s milieu, watering hole morphing into spiritous bog and then downright drowning pool, my fellow revenants growing pelts and canines, yapping and tearing at each other in bloody joy. Nothing like a bar’s parking lot at 3 a.m., the building black and shuttered tight, only a few cars left in the lot -- ghostly remnants of the lucky or the taxi’d off, the barmaids soon to get off, me -- a few lightposts casting insomniac phosphor over me, the unsleeping eye, the eye which refuses to close while the world lies dead. Criminal, like the way an alcoholic thieves a life doing business with whiskey bottles. We’ve got it ass-backward, cart before the horse, runner’s buzz before the burn, noctal bliss before nuptial ring, triumphal will before actually doing anything worthwhile. We learn in reverse, bitch-slapped by errancy, taught the measure of evil by our boundless wallows in it. I’ve found for myself that the treasures of the night aren’t assaulted through midnight as welled from the first thoughts of 4 a.m.; maybe it’s just the difference between a searing and surrendered mind - both approach the altar, but the direction is fateful. *** So here I am, abed at 9:45 p.m. on New Year’s Night, the bedroom up on the second floor of this bungalow like the bridge of a schooner, my bed facing the sliding glass door which opens onto a balcony overlooking the sea some 30 yards away. Breezes are stiff but not really cold so I leave the glass door open and float off in this boat of a coffin of a boot of a bed, rocked by the rough orchestrals of the seaside night. I lay a good while before finally falling off, not sure what was clinging to wakefulness. When letting go proffers the purest relief. Why is it always a fight to the finish, reaching for booty which ends up falling through our hands like water? What fools we are, surficial, perambling territorial predators of the wide savannah, eking our mastery from the outsides of flints, cartographies of conquest, the feel of booty in the hand, pearly and gold, relishing the thieved satin of flesh. Up and down the shore money has heaped itself in time-share condos and mulitmillion-dollar getaways, like the gamblers we are, betting the house against the sea, greedy for Pluto’s abyssal treasures, the full measure of Poseidon’s gold palaces founded deep in the earth’s salt womb. Dayside enterprises -- our furious making -- are all cashiered in bronze and fire and shaped by blades and scythes, the brutal alchemy of rude stones stuffed back in the mother’s kiln in order to cook up some new homunculus of power -- steel, oil, radioactive cores, bytes. The bright tide towers, tsunamis, crests now, for better and ill -- what secret of nature cannot be penetrated and seeded and nurtured for our benefit? So asks the arrogant animal will of our species. But then there is the night. Lamp it as we try, it’s just too big. Ten feet away from the streetlights by the road night reassumes itself in a vaporous dense black breathing. It has an appetite for us that feeds on what nourishes us -- canines which take joy in the tearing of flesh and meat, the glut of blood. A deep carnal hellfire which augments the good graces of night. Or take the sea, whose surfaces we have fully sailed, whose perils have been drastically reduced by innovations of keel and sail, GPS and satellite weather. No matter how thick the steel underfoot, it’s always a raw balance of ballast spreading wings over water and drowning depths pressing up from below. Each wave carries both a threat and promise in its caul, like a two-faced Janus, nightmarish of the rogue and dreamy of Tahitian satieties. Outside the opened glass door, it’s blow and wave-crash in a low ostinato with a few honks and blatts from the sax player next door mixed ink, with further riffs added by that couple arguing yet again. All of it out there, just beyond my closed eyelids, like a big pair of hands clasped around my head, fingers over my eyes, thumbs gently rolling around and around my temples, a deep voice whispering Release ...

Or is it Farewell

or Darling

or Down the hatch

or Daddy

Fading at last, my thoughts loosen into the murk and dissemble, show the last traces of me sinking in the last shape I assumed before disappearing altogether, darkness reaching for me like a falling gold coin.

Night Boat

I was wrong about the boat I’d seen that afternoon. It wasn’t a fishing trawler but the salvage boat, out panning for deep gold on New Year’s Day, searching for the drowned lode of a squandered Spanish empire. That former state trooper called later night, sweaty for a drink, needing to talk with another drunk. I tell him how hard it is for me to avoid the whiskey sometimes, when I just want to drown away all memory of Jan and Brendan, when the work of taking another breath just doesn’t seem worth it -- when my tongue trembled to carve those three words which kills most drunks: Aw Fuck It ... I tell him it’s pure grace that keeps that drink from my lips, poured into me when I say a prayer for help; grace to that there is a next right thing to do and reaching for it is like reaching for a white chip, surrender with shoe leather. And it always helps to have a fellow drunk to tell about it, and I thank him for giving me the opportunity to do so. He sighs Yeah and seems to settle.

We talk on for a while. He asks me what I do and I say not much, just got the settlement, going to try beach life for a spell, regroup, do some odd jobs, write a bit, stay away from women, you know, He tells me that the boat had found some interesting stuff that day just off Malion Beach, some larger iron tackle, an intact wine bottle, even a few gold coins. The crew unloaded from the boat excited and motivated, telling him to get things in order for a three-day foray the next day. There was a feeling of immanence in the air, even he got caught up in it, but when he got back to his trailer that night it collapsed, turned to its other. He just sat on the couch staring at the spot on the coffee table where he used to keep the framed picture of the family before he couldn’t stand to look at it any more. I tell him he can reenter that picture if he keeps working on this thing. Just keep coming back, I told him, stick around for the miracle. Sometimes it’s just platitudes, but drowning men can hold on to those where sufficient men simply flounder down around them.

We ring off and I return to my iMac, diddle a while on some prose, randomly open folders containing thousands of poems that never emerged from their digital stables. I know I shouldn’t but I then open the folder of photos, jacketing myself in an iron maiden of memory: Jan and I over her parents place in the first flush of courtship, sitting together at a piano banging out pop ballads from a cheat book; Brendan sitting on the beach at three, eating sand; the three of us at Disney World, snapped by a Norweigian tourist whose thumb blurred the bottom left of the frame, obscuring half of me, that part that survives. I look outside the big rear window at the sea, all black now, the sky above in dark grey toil, whorling, breezing hard. A few lights flicker far out and then nothing. That’s where I see my face in the window, a distant phosphor, travelling like a shaman’s swooning soul into infernal regions of woundedness, ferrying a song that has black wings and a terrible beak as far out there as it needs to go. Jan in a coracle, Brendan in a cradle spinning and turning on that tide, no longer needing me, sighing for me to let them row on to oblivion, but how can I? My face like a moon tiding them round the world through its oceans, remitting something as they revolve. Or maybe just waiting for that grace to hand me a sextant up from the wash, something that will lead me back to this next life.

Whatever. I power down the iMac and settle down with Moby Dick for the night -- again, again -- eerily solaced by its big black music, its unavoidable end. Winds picking up outside, whipping and bracing the house, opening lower stops of the organum, cooling things off. Melville’s gnostic tongue lashing back at that wind, defiant of its God and white agency: How can I pray to that same God for help? Yet I do. Maybe the only way to Him is through Melville, through his hell, aboard his melancholy black ship where mercies are small and tides are too great. At least in the reading.