NORMAN DUBIE

Professor Slaughter’s Cell in the Land of Luz

Horse, I’m back from my lecture. I’m so sick
these days, even of the Bosch posters
that paper my wife’s bicycle parlor. Pink laundry,
exercise room. And who was this painter?
Some crackpot
evangelical landlord who worked
the cautionary 15th century advertisement
for Hell:

THOSE BIRDLIKE TORTURERS IN MOON ELEVATORS, DEAD
TREES, THE LABIAL
EAR FALLEN TO THE GROUND, BELLOWS FOR BLOWING PEPPER,
HAT OF THE BLACK ROSE, DICE
MADE OF WATER, AN EXECUTIONER’S ORCHARD–
LADDER OF QUICK DEPOSITION, GALL

ON A SPONGE, SPONGE ON A STICK, AN ARMPIT
WITH A PEARLY BLUE GALAXY WITH THE REVERSED
LETTER OF LEAD IN ITS STARGATE, BLIND MULES, A DECAPITATED
BRIMLESS HAT OR FEZ OF THE POSTERIOR CINGULATE, NAKED
CARDINALS SWIMMING IN A CUP, A FRENCH COFFEE-PRESS FULL
OF BLOOD AND URINE, AND JEROME
WITH A HOSE IN HIS ASS. And she is just sitting there

riding her stationless bike from Oz
to Luz. On a dime, friend,
I’m just telling you we’re worse than dogs, worse
than kittens even. I can’t take it much longer.
Did you see that bullshit
they’re selling about Cerne?
They’ll say anything to keep pouring concrete, in reprise,
not to mention a nuclear reactor dedicated
to that lamebrain Higgs’s extinct bison. GOT

TO WATCH THE KID MOW THE LAWN. CHECK
YOU LATER. THAT FUCKER—    BOSCH
WAS JUST A GUY WHO PHOTOGRAPHS
THE DEAD FOETUS TO BE PASSED AS A HANDBILL

TO A PREGNANT TEENAGER WHO DECLINES THE PROCEDURE
AND RETURNS TO HER FATHER’S GARAGE
WHERE IN THE CADILLAC’S BLUE EXHAUST
SHE SINGS A SONG HER DEAD GRANDMOTHER

taught her when she was nine. Sure, BUD,
EVERYTHING’S FINE.
I’M LOSING IT, YOU KNOW?
LOOK AT THAT ALTARPIECE OF SAINT JEROME. LOOK AT
THE FLESH OF THE MARTYRED JESUS. LOOK
AT THE PILGRIM IN A STARFIELD

THAT IS A CLEAR COFFEE-PRESS
FROM SOME SALE AT STARBUCKS. HIS PATIENCE? PERSPECTIVE?

ALL OF IT ACCURATE, PERSPECTIVE AND CIRCUMSTANCE,
THAT BRILLIANT FUCK—BOSCH.
ROOT-CUT, FLABBERGASTED, ACTUAL! JESUS, BOSS,
IT’S THE BIG PICTURE, ISN’T IT?