Dhalgren

revise, at any rate, you've apparently done quite a bit of work to achieve. But I haven't lived with them by any means long enough to decide whether they are, for want of a simple term, good poems. It's very possible that if I just picked them up in a book store, and read them over, read them over very carefully too, I might easily not find anything in them at all that interested me.'

Kidd frowned.

'You say you've only been writing these for a few weeks?'

Kidd nodded, still frowning.

'That's quite amazing. How old are you?'

'Twenty-seven.'

'Now there.' Mr. Newboy pulled back. 'I would have thought you were much, much younger. I would have assumed you were about nineteen or eighteen and had worked most of your life in the country.'

'No. I'm twenty-seven and I've worked all over, city, country, on a ship. What's that got to do with it?'

'Absolutely nothing.' Newboy laughed and drank. 'Nothing at all. I've only met you a handful of times, and it would be terribly presumptuous of me to think I knew you, but frankly what I've been thinking about is how something like this would be for you. Twenty-seven…?'

'I'd like it.'

'Very good.' Newboy smiled. 'And the decision I've come to is, simply, that so little poetry is published in the world it would ill behoove me to stand in the way of anyone who wants to publish more. Your being older than I thought actually makes it easier. I don't feel quite as responsible. You understand, I'm not really connected with the whole business. The idea came from Mr Calkins. Don't let this make you think ill of me, but for a while I tried to dissuade him.'

'Because you didn't think the poems were good enough?'

'Because Roger is not in the business of publishing poetry. Often unintentionally, he ends up in the business of sensationalism. Sensationalism and poetry have nothing to do with one another. But then, your poems are not sensational. And I don't think he wants to make them so.'

'You know, I was just talking to another poet, I mean somebody who's been writing a long time, and with a book and everything. He's got poems in Poetry. And that other magazine… the New Yorker. Maybe Mr Calkins would like to see some of his stuff too?'

'I don't think so,' Mr Newboy said. 'And if I have one objection to the whole business, I suppose that's it. What would you like for the name of your book?'

The muscles in Kidd's back tightened almost to pain. As he relaxed them, he felt the discomfort in the gut that was emblematic of fear. His mind was sharp and glittery. He was as aware of the two men in leather talking in the corner, the woman in construction boots coming from the men's room, of Fenster and Loufer still in their booth, of the bartender leaning on the towel against the bar, as he was of Newboy. He pulled the notebook into his lap and looked down at it. After the count of seven he looked up and said, 'I want to call it—Brass Orchids.'

'Again?'

'Brass Orchids.'

'No 'The' or anything?'

'That's right. Just: Brass Orchids.'

'That's very nice. I like that. I—' Then Newboy's expression changed; he laughed. 'That really is nice! And you've got quite a sense of humor!'

'Yeah,' Kidd said. 'Cause I think it takes some balls for me to pull off some shit like that. I mean, me with a book of poems?' He laughed too.

'Yes, I do like that,' Newboy repeated. 'I hope it all works out well. Maybe my hesitations will prove unfounded after all. And any time you want to get us copies of the poems, in the next few days, that'll be fine.'

'Sure.'

Newboy picked up his glass. 'I'm going to talk to Paul Fenster over there for a while. He left Roger's today and I'd like to say hello. Will you excuse me?'

'Yeah.' Kidd nodded after Newboy.

He looked at his notebook again. With his thumb, he nudged the clip on the pen out of the spiral where he had stuck it, and sat looking at the cover: click-click, click-click, click.

He lettered across the cardboard: Brass Orchids. And could hardly read it for dirt.

Brushing to the final pages (pausing at the poem called Elegy to read two lines, then hurrying past), he felt a familiar sensation: at the page where he'd been writing before, listening for a rhythm from his inner voice, he turned to strain the inner babble—

It hit like pain, was a pain; knotted his belly and pushed all air from his lungs, so that he rocked on the stool and clutched the counter. He looked around (only his eyes were closed) taking small gulps. All inside vision blanked at images of glory, inevitable and ineffably sensuous till he sat, grinning and opened mouthed and panting, fingers pressing the paper. He tore his eyelids apart, the illusory seal, and looked down at the notebook. He picked up the pen and hastily wrote two lines till he balked at an unrevealed noun. Re-reading made him shake and he began automatically crossing out words before he could trace the thread of meaning from sound to image: he didn't want to feel the chains. They drew across him and stung.

They carried pain and no solution for pain.

And incorrectly labeled it something else.

He wrote more words (not even sure what the last five were) when once more his back muscles sickled, his stomach tapped the bar edge, and inside the spheres of his eyes, something blind and luminous and terrifying happened.

Those women, he thought, those men who read me in a hundred years will… and no predicate fixed the fantasy. He shook his head and choked. Gasping, he tried to read what he had set down, and felt his hand move to X the banalities that leached all energy: '…pit…' There was a word (a verb!), and watched those on either side suddenly take its focus and lose all battling force, till it was only flabby, and archaic. Write: he moved his hand (remember, he tried to remember, that squiggle is the letters '…tr…' when you go to copy this) and put down letters that approximated the sounds gnawing his tongue root, 'Awnnn…' was the sound gushing from his nose.

Someday I am going to… it came this time with light; and the fear from the park, the recollections of all fear that stained and stained like time and dirt, page, pen, and counter obliterated. His heart pounded, his nose ran; he wiped his nose, tried to re-read. What was that squiggle that left the word between '… reason…' and '…pain…' indecipherable?

The pen, which had dropped, rolled off the counter and fell. He heard it, but kept blinking at his scrawl. He picked the notebook up, fumbled the cover closed, and the floor, hitting his feet, jarred him forward. 'Mr Newboy …!'

Newboy, standing by the booth, turned. '… yes?' His expression grew strange.

'Look, you take this.' Kidd thrust the notebook out. 'You take this now…'

Newboy caught it when he let it go. 'Well, all right—'

'You take it,' Kidd repeated. 'I'm finished with it…' He realized how hard he was breathing. 'I mean I think I'm finished with it now… so—' Tak looked up from his seat—'you can take it with you. Now.'

Newboy nodded. 'All right.' After a slight pause, he pursed his lips: 'Well, Paul. It was good seeing you. I'd hoped you'd have gotten up again. You must come sometime soon, before I leave. I've really enjoyed the talks we've had. They've opened up a great deal to me. You've told me a great deal, shown me a great deal, about this city, about this country. Bellona's been very good for me.' He nodded to Tak. 'Good meeting you.' He looked once more at Kidd, who only realized the expression was concern as Newboy — with the notebook under his arm — was walking away.

Tak patted the seat beside him.

Kidd started to sit; halfway, his legs gave and he fell.

'Another hot brandy for the Kidd here!' Tak hollered, so loud people looked. To Fenster's frown, Tak simply shook his grimacing head: 'He's okay. Just had a rough day. You okay, Kidd?'