the porch one evening and Beef came out with the moon to talk to her, told her his deepest secrets about how he wanted to just go out and enjoy nature as far as he was concerned–or some such–she my mother sat there reigning over wild conversations, Jean Fourchette the idiot came stompin by with his firecrackers and google giggled in the late sun afternoon streets of Fourth July Lowell 1936 and made monkey ginsy dances for the ladies whose children most likely by this time were all downtown disbanding among crowds of the Fourth July South Common Fireworks and Carnival, great nights —tell you about it–Jean Fourchette saw my mother sitting on the porch in a scrape of eve and asked her if she was lonely would she like to be entertained by some fireworks, she said okay, and old mad Jean set everything-he-had-in his-pocket-off–plop plow, scatter, zing; cross–he entertained the ladies of Sarah Avenue not twenty minutes before the opening bomb gong down at the Common across the soft July rooftops of Lowell clear from white tenemental creameries of Mt. Vernon porch to crazy rick-ass Bloozong Street across the river over by the dye works, over by the tanners, over by your Loo-la, Lowell–over by your long hoo-raws, roar old old rohor–rohor motor clodor closed door–on the pajama leg hanging, ding, with the white hoozahs flangeing right, they made left on a wide swing, beat the time with every wing, the ring, saw nothing in the heaven eyes but silver-star-bells, of all descriptions, saved but never knew it, he tried every means to explain to the odd festival of types gathered around his shoe-horn, “Looka here ladies and genelmen,”—as me and G.J. and Vinny and Scotty are scuffling around at the Carnival—(my mother is smiling at Jean Fourchette) (Boom!) the fireworks are beginning, the whore-caster by the stream is showing you how the horses race in the wild hullah, they had– There were races run with wooden flap-horses leaping ahead on the turn of dice–they spun the dice so fast (in cages) you could see horses leap ahead in their win–a crazy inanimate wild living race like you’d imagine angels run … when they feel–X was the mark where the bing-lights played, in the night mist a top hatted clown presided over the toteboard– Farther on we smelt shit in grass, saw cameras, ate popcorn, blew the string balloons to heaven-Night came shrouding bluely with flap off arms in the hiar-zan– Hanging moss (hke the moss in the Castle hanging as you hear a kid whistle for his balloon) (in the grass the littler kids are wrestling in a Tiny Tim Dim you can hardly see–big souls from little acorns– Wrangling toots on all sides of pipe steams, furt-fut peanuts for sale, furtive hipsters of the time, underfoot shammysoft dusts)— Beef Paquin, now, years later, I see huddled in a football hood coat heading home from the mills in mid December, bending to the wind round Blezan’s corner, advancing homeward to hamburger supper of the upper clime, the golden rich consistency of his mother’s kitchen– Beef is going into Eternity at his end without me–my end is as far from his as eternity– Eternity hears hollow voices in a rock? Eternity hears ordinary voices in the parlor. On a bone the ant descends.
3
THE SCENE IS IN THE CASTLE, in one of the more sumptuous rooms facing the forests of Billerica, as March Hare clouds race to the black,—speaking just then (“Of course that doesn’t indicate that anything is going to come of these attempts”) was (it is evening) Count Condu, impeccably dressed, just-risen from the coff of eve, the Satin Doombox with its Spenglerian metamorphosed scravenings on the lid. The recipient of his speech is the witty, gay ambassador for the Black Cardinal, our good friend Amadeus Baroque —sitting with his legs underneath, on an elegant longue, with a sip drink, titterlipped in listen.
“Yes my dear Count, but you do know don’t you how pre-POSTEROUS it will be for any of these things”- (his slavering glee)—”to have any effect on anyone, Ghod!—it will have to—”
“Second, I show you—”
“—positively—”
“—heretics in the church is what they