 Jack Rose by Maxwell Boddenheim, read for LibriVox.org by Shashank Jokmola. With crafty brooding life turned to Jack Rose and made him heroine peddler, and his pose was suddenly reflective since he feared that life regarding him had merely jeered. His vanity was small and could not call. His egoism to the dubious hall of fame where average artists spend their hour, doubting his powers he was forced to cover. Within the shrill, damp alleys of his time immersed in that brisk midnight known as crime. He shunned the fiercely shrewd stuff that he sold to other people and derived a cold. Enjoymen from the writhing of their hearts, a speechless artist he admired the arts of blundering destruction like a monk, viewing a play that made him mildly drunk. And so malicious and ascetic Jack bent to his trade with a relentless back until he tapped in an expected smile, a woman's smile less smooth and harder style. May bulgar pawned her flesh to him and gave his heroine to her brother with a grave reluctance fumbling at her painted lips, the wangry at herself she took the whips of undesired love to quite a boy who wept innately for his favorite toy. She hated Jack because he failed to gloss and softened the rough surface of her loss. His matter of fact frown biting at her heart. He hated her because her smiling guess had robbed him of ascetic loneliness and when her brother died Jack sat beside her grief and played a mouth harp while she cried. But when she raised her head and smiled at him, a smile intensely stripped and subtly grim. His hate felt overawed and in a trap, and suddenly his head fell to her lap, for sometimes she sat stiffly in the chair, then slowly raised her hand and stroked his hair. And of poem this recording is in public domain. Have you ever played on a violin larger than ten thousand stars and warmer than what you call sin? Torben, a young man from Mars, gave me the stretch of his voice and my know fell down like a pin on the echoed din of his words. He said that I have no choice. I must use the barrenly involved words with which you have not solved the wistful riddles of your days. Leave the pale and ruddy herds of men with their surrendering ways and come with me to Mars. Two, drums of autumn beat on Mars, calling our minds to reunion. The avenues of seaweed spars have attained a paleness equal to that of earthly philosophies. And the trees have lost the diamond violence of spring. The purple leaves have turned to gray just as a human religion gradually changes to pretense. In Mars we have only two seasons, spring and autumn, their reasons, rest in a treacherous sun that suddenly runs away, creating a twilight suspense. When the sun reappears Mars is once more amazed by the blazing flatteries of spring, again the heavy leaves ring with odor and light deftly pressed into a stormy chorus. Again we abandon the screaming violins of our minds and each man wins an understanding rest. Once more we roam and jest upon the avenues with voices one shade louder than the leaves or sail upon the coral seas and trade our words with molten ease. Throughout the autumn we stand still and deserted while our minds leap into sweeping tensions blending sound and form into one search across the universe. Three, what do we find in this search? All of your earthly words lurch feebly upon the outskirts of my mind, and when they pass beyond them they are blind. Outward forms are but the graves of sound in all the different waves of light and odor. They are sounds that floats unshaped and loosely gowned. When sound is broken into parts your ears receive the smaller arts, but when it drifts in broad release you cannot hear its louder peace. Your house's hills and flesh of red are shapes of sound asleep or dead. In Mars a stronger spring of sound revives our forms and makes profound music softer than the dins that rose from autumn violins. Our minds, whose tense excursion spread in chase of noisy walls that fled, relent and drop within our heads and join the timid sound of their beds. Filled with a gracious weariness we place it like a lighter dress upon the sounds from other stars brought back to celebrate on Mars. Four, a girl of Mars is burning notes of thought within her throat, her pale white lips are turning the fire to storied cords. The song is old but often made by girls who sit in spring and braid the lantern language of their hair. Its spacious skady cannot be sold to your narrow glow of words, the hint that I shall give is cold and like the sound of snowy air. I shall journey with the men when my curling thoughts are ten o' the sternness of that number, colored sounds from breath to umber promising a first release. I have dwelt too long in peace, placing smallness on my breast, the prison whisper of my skin longs to vanish in the din of autumn. When great sounds are caught, let the tall wildness of my thoughts stride beside the thundering grace of the man whose springtime face brought me tiny notes of rest. She sits within a house of stone that lends a wise and balanced tone, a roofless house whose walls are low and level where their heads gray glow. The brightest sounds of her parents fly around the house we do not die in Mars but change to gleams of sounds and stay within our gayer rounds until, when tired spring has gone, we lead the autumn searchers on. Before we change our bodies curve like yours save that our skins are gray, like shades of gray that almost swerve to white like earthly men who pray. 5. We do not love in hate in Mars. These earthly cries are flashing bars of sound from which our minds are free. They stand in our mythology. Legends elusive and weird, acrid gods that once were feared, they vanished imperceptibly and none among us can agree upon the tangled way in which they fled, starlit symbols of dread. They slowly exhausted themselves and died and striding heralds of a wilder bride. We have no emotions in Mars. They're like long-heeled wounds whose scars are softened by the gleam of our minds. We approach them with clear kinds of sound from deeply resting thought. Our youths and maidens have not caught. The treacherous and tightly bound confusion of your loving sound for sex to us is but the ring of different shades of thought and spring when men recline upon the breast of women dissolving into thoughtful rest. An autumn sex is left behind. Men and women no longer lined by different bodies raise their dins above the screaming violins. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Turmoil in the Morgue by Maxwell Bodenheim. Read for LibriVox.org by April 6-0-9-0, California, United States of America. Negro, Chinaman, white-servant girl, Russian woman are learning how to be dead, aided by the impersonal boredom of a Morgue at evening. The Morgue divides its whole, of dead men's contacts into four, hearts in places one in each, of these four bodies waiting for the carts, the frankness of their decay, breaks into contradictory symbols, and sits erect upon the wooden tables, thus cancelling the validity of time. Any voices passive as slime, the Negro speaks, kill the woman, rip her skin, saw her heart floating in a tumbler of gin, had to drink her heart because it wouldn't leave the gin. Because I wanted to reach all of her, they ripped my flesh, they wanted to reach all of me, and their excuse was better than mine. Cowed baby painted black, the Negro sits upon fundamentals, and troubles them a little with his hands, the beautiful insanity of his eyes rebukes, the common void of his face, then the Chinaman speaks, in a voice whose tones are brass, from which emotion has been extracted. Loved a woman, she was white, her man blew my brains out into the night, hatred is afraid of color, color is the holiday. Given to moods of understanding, hatred does not understand. When stillness ends the fever of ideas, hatred will be a scarcely remembered spark. Again at peace, with a matchless deceit of a planet, the Chinaman fashions his placity immensity. The Chinaman chides his insignificance with a more impressive rapture than that of western midgets. His rapture provides an excellent light for the silhouette of the Negro's curse. Then the white servant girl speaks in a voice whose syllables fall like dripping flower juice and oval, both producing a similar sound. I made a neat rug for a man, he cleaned his feet on me and I liked. The tired scheming way in which he did it. When he finished he decided that he needed a smoother texture and found another lady. I killed myself because I couldn't rub out the cunning marks that he left behind, impulsive doll made of rubbish on which a spark descended and ended. The white servant girl without question or answer accepts the jest of a universe. Then the Russian woman speaks in a voice that is heat. Illities upon its couch of sound, I married a man because his lips tormented my melancholy and made it long to be meek, and because when he walked to his office each morning he thought himself a kindled devil. Enduring the smaller figures around him he abandoned me for German intrigue and chased him in other men. Never quite designing him, death a better megalomaniac, relieved me of the pursuit. Full of earth delighted with the vibration of its nerves the Russian woman sunders life into amusing deities of emotion and bestows a hurried worship. Then the morgue attended by a whim slays the intonations of their trance and slips these people back to life. The air is kept by transformation. The white servant girl retreats to a corner with a shriek while the negro advances and the Russian woman nervously objects to the China man's question. The morgue, weary housewife for speechless decay, spends its helplessness in gay revenge, revenge of earth upon former mannequins, who straightened up on wooden tables and betrayed her. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. CONENSE NOVEL by Maxwell Bodenheim Read for LibreVox.org by Lillian Elizabeth Shun the abundant paragraphs, with which a novelist interviews shades of physical appearance in one man, and regard the body of Alvin Sparr, curtain by more aristocratic words. Alvin Sparr in adolescence was neither slim nor retunned, but slightly aware of future corpulence. The face that Aristotle may have had was interfering bit by bit with an outer face of pouting curves. Alvin Sparr in youth held half of the face that Aristotle may have had, and the pungent directness of a stable boy. Alvin Sparr in middle age had the face that Aristotle may have had, a large austerity disputing the bloom of well-selected emotions. Straight nose, thick lips, low forehead, were apprentices to the austerity that often stepped beyond them. Alvin Sparr in old age had drawn the wrinkled bed quilts over the face that Aristotle may have had, but his eyes peered out, fighting with sleep. Shuffle the cards on which I have written Alvin Sparr's changes in physical appearance, and deal them out to the various players. Accident first, then the qualities of the players. These two will struggle to dominate the movements of the plot. The plot of this novel will ascend in twenty lines and escape the honored adulteration so dear to men. Alvin Sparr loved a woman who poured acid on his slumber by showing him the different fools within him. Sincerely longing for wisdom he married her while she desired a pupil whom she could lazily beat. She convinced him that emotions were simply periods of indecision within the mind, and with emphasis he walked to another woman. The second woman loved him, but she was merely to him clay for mental sculpture. She killed herself, believing that he might become to her in death. A figure less remote and careful, he forgot her in an hour, and used the rest of his life in finding women over whom he could tower. He died while madly straying over his heights. The incidental people, chatter and background? You will find them between pages one and four hundred of the latest bulk in prose. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Manners by Maxwell Bodenheim, read for Librebox.org by Jordan. Gingerly the poet sit, gingerly they spend, the adjectives of dribbling flatteries with here and there a laceration, feeding on the poison of a smile in the home of the poet host, that bears the slants of a commonplace eagerly distributed. The accepted lyrical note, the poets sit, the poets drink much wine, and tug a little at their garments, weighing the advantages of this robing. It is necessary to call them poets, since according to custom, titles are generously given to the attempt. Serona, cousin of the poet host, munches at the feast of words. She endeavors to convince herself that her hunger has become an illusion. The poets, capitulating to wine, leave their birds in twilight, their trees in cattle at evening, and study Serona's body. Their manacled hands still joined by the last half-broken link. Beneath her ill-fitting worship, young Serona fears that the poets are wordy animals, circled by located corsets. Serona, if you stood on your head, now and waved the brave plan of your legs, undisturbed by cloth, the poets would be convinced that you were either insane or angling. But an exceptional poet, never present at these parties, would compliment your vigor and scoff at the vain deceptions of privacy. Vulgarity, Serona, is often a word invented by certain men to defend. They're disdained for other men who chuckle at the shulking tyrannies of fashion. Few men, Serona, dare to become completely vulgar, but many nibble at the fringes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. An acrobat, a violinist, and a chambermaid celebrate by Maxwell Bodenheim, read for LibriVox.org by Jordan. Geometry of souls, dispute the rounding of gesturing flesh, angles and oblongs and squares, slip with astounding precision into the throes of lifted elbows, into the searching perpendicular, of fingers rising to more than 10, into the salient straightness of lips, into the rock-like protest of knees, the flesh of human beings. As a beginner's lesson in mathematics, the appliance stupidity of flesh mentions the bungling effort of a novice to understand the concealing mathematics of the soul. Men will tell you that an arm, rising to the sky, in the cage-stridden emotion, reveals a scream of authority, expresses the longing of a red engine known as the heart, rises like a flagpole from which the mind signals. Men will fail to tell you that an arm, rising to the sky, takes a straight line of the soul and strives to comprehend it, that the arm is a solid tunnel for a significance that shoots behind it, the squares and angles and oblongs of the soul. The commencing lines of the soul are pestered by a debris of words. Men shovel away the words falteringly in you, tamedly and pompously in middle age, vigorously in old age. Death takes the last shovel full away, death is accommodating. Nothing is wise except outline. The content held by outline is a slave in the mass. Men would feel outlines in their minds, try to give the outlines dignity by molding them into towers two inches high, in which they sit in lonely talkative importance. Men with many outlines break them into more, and thus playing come with quickened breath, to hints of spiritual contours, seek only the decoration, avoid the embryonic yelping of argument and scan your patterns for angles, oblongs, and squares of the soul. I overheard this concentrated prelude while listening to an acrobat, a violinist, and a chambermaid celebrate the removal of their flesh. While playing, the violinist's upper arm bisected the middle of the acrobat's head as the ladder knelt to hear, and the chambermaid stretched straight on the floor with her forehead, touching the tips of the violinist's feet, motion knelt to receive, the counseling touch of sound, and vigor in a searching line. Reclined at the feet of sound, buying a liquid release, angles and arms and straight lines of bodies, made a decoration, the violinist's music, fell upon this decoration, erased the vague embellishment of flesh, and came to angles, squares, and oblongs of the soul. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Novel Conversation by Maxwell Boddenheim. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Certain favorite words of men have gathered in a veil made of sound waves. These words far removed from human tongues and impositions enjoy an hour of freedom. Emotion. Men believe that I can speak without the aid of thought. True I have murdered many kings, leaned upon many cheeks, and sought the release of music. But when I write upon words, I am forced to steal them from the mind. Forgive me now if a trace of thought invades my liquid purity. Truth. You need not defend your argument with meek verbosity, as though you dreaded its possible subtleties. We are not men, but words. Men have made me a lofty acrobat, entertaining each of their desires with some old twists on the bars. But let us leave the frantic tasks forced upon us by men. This is our grove of rest. Intellect. Emotion. We have often crept from our separate palaces, asking each other for secret favors. Emotion. We laughed because the men who made us could not see our desperate trading. We will end our laugh upon the dust of the last man on earth and taste a peaceful strangeness. Art. And I, the tortured child of your love, will slip from the fringe of your greyness into the void from which I came. Poetry. And I, in the moment when your arms touched each other in the night, will no longer strive to tell the happening to men. Fantasy. And I, the glistening whim of your secret love, will change to a question lurking within your dust. Suggestion. And I, the beckoning second when you curved a world in the twist of your fingers, I shall vanish into your completeness. Intellect. The hope of this magic ending is our only consolation. Emotion, a new philosopher's forging blades for your torture, and a braggart poet invites me to his disdain. Let us return to our burdens. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Scrub Woman by Maxwell Bowdenheim. Read for LibriVox.org by Neema. The Scrub Woman, a sentimental poem. One. Time has placed his careful insult upon your body. In other ages, time gave rags to hags without riches. But now he brings cotton, calico, and muslin, tokens of his admiration for broken backs. Neat nonsense, stamped with checks and stripes, fondles the deeply marked sneer that time has dropped upon you. While time, in one of his well-debated moods, that men call on age, is attending to his manners, I shall scan the invisible banners of meaning that unfurl when you move. Two. When you open your mouths, I see a well, and strangled chastity at the bottom. Not chastity of the flesh, but lucid purity of the mind choked by a design of filth that has slowly turned cold, like a sewer intruding upon a small dead face. This is not repulsive. Only things alive of gaudy hollows can repulse, but your death holds a haggard candor that gently thrust its way into the unimportance of facts. You are not old, you are never young. Life caressed your senses with a heavy sterility, and you thanked him with the remnant of thought that he left behind, his usual moment of absent-minded kindness. When the muscles of your arm punish the brush that rubs upon wood, I see a rollicking mockery, rhythm and starved pursuit of petrified desire. When the palms of your hands stay flat in dirty water, I can observe your emotions, welcome refuse as perfume, intent upon a last ghastly deception. When you grunt and touch your hair, I perceive your exhaustion, reaching for a bit of pity, and carefully rearranging it. Lift up your pales and go home. Take the false tenderness of rest. Drop your clothes, disordered on the floor. Vendictive simplicity and a poem. This recording is in the public domain. Meditations in a Cemetery by Maxwell Boddenheim. Read for LibriVox.org by Laurie Wilson. You can write nothing new about death. Girard Latout. Death, the grandiosely hackneyed subject. I live in a house one hundred years old, placed in the middle of a cemetery. The cemetery is bothered by mausoleums, where fragments of Greek and Gothic lie in orderly shame. Slabs and crosses of stone remain unacquainted with the bones that they must strive to introduce. The trees retain their guiltless sibilance. The trees tell me upon my morning walk, in other cemeteries, Shakespeare, Materlink and Shaw, fail to produce the slightest awe in trees that do not create for an audience. Being finalities, the grass and trees find no need for rules of etiquette. Delicacy must be effortless, or else it changes to a patched up dress. But delicate and coarse are words for quickness that tries to linger, and slowness that strives to be fast. Emotions and thoughts are merely the improvisations of motion and lack a permanent content. An aging tree is wiser than an aging poet, and death is wiser than both. The scale ascends out of sight, and I recall that the morning is light, and smaller notes await me. The tombstones around my path have been crisply visited by names to which they bear no relation. Imagine the perturbation of a stone removed from the comprehension of a mountain, and branded with the name of A Rosensky. Recollecting journeys of my own, I close my eyes and leave the stone, the names of other men entreat, slight variations in line ponderously refusing to resign. Men who will be forgotten tried to hinder the process with stone. Because they dread the affirmation of ashes undiscovered in wind, I am walking through this cemetery. The old gravediggers will soon astonish the earth below this oak, from their faces adjectives have fled, leaving the essential noun, leaving also the unwilling frown with which they parley with the earth. Death, I must tell you of these things, since you are unaware that they exist. You send an efficient servant to the almost unseen fluctuations of tombstones, skulls, and lilies, reserving your eyes for larger games. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Simple Account of a Poet's Life by Maxwell Bodenheim. Read for LibriVox.org by Wes Freeman. In 1892, when literature and art in America presented a mildewed but decorous mean, he was born. During the first months of his life, his senses had not yet learned to endure the majestic babble of old sterilities. The vacuum of his brain felt a noisy thinness outside, which it could not hear or see, and gave it the heavier substance of yells that were really creation fighting its way to form. When babies shriek, they seek power and thought and action. Life objects to their intent and forces their voices to repent. At the age of four he lived inwardly, with enormous shapeless emotions taking his limbs like waves. His mind was vapor, cinchard, by an occasional protest that mumbled and could not be heard. People to him were headless figures, bodies surmounted by voices that tickled like feathers or struck like rocks, missiles thrown from moving mountaintops and leaving only resentment at their touch. At ten the voices receded to invisible meanings that toyed with flesh-protected secrets of faces. The voices made promises which the faces continually evaded and often the voices and vengeance changed a lip or an eyebrow to repeat their neglected demands. When swung to him the voices were insolent enigmas tripping in him as he stood midway between fright and indifference. He sometimes tittered tranquilly at the obvious absurdity of this. His rages were false and sprang from aloof thoughts chanting over their chains. The immediate cause of each rage merely opened the door upon this changeless inner condition, that species of intoxicated thought which men describe as emotion used its merriment to blind his eyesight. But anger, whose real roots are in the mind, tendered him times of hot perception. He noticed that children held flexible flesh that wisely sought a variety of patterns. Flesh intent upon correcting its closeted effect, while older people enticed their flesh into erect and formal lies, repeated until their patience died and they tried an unpracticed rebellion. This was a formless revelation unattended by words but throwing its indistinct contrast over his broad one-colored thought. At sixteen he employed words to flay the contrast into shapes. At seventeen he decided to emulate the gay wisdom of children's flesh. He deliberately borrowed whiskey to wipe away the lessons of older people lest they intrude their sterility upon his plotting exuberance. He placed his hands on women, gently, boldly, as one experimenting with a piano. He stole money, bagged on street corners, and answered people with an actual knife merely to give his thoughts and emotions a changing reason for existence. Moderation seemed to him a figure half asleep and half awake and mutilating the truth of each condition. At twenty-four his flesh became tired and to amuse the weariness his hands wrote poetry. He had done this before but only as a gleeful reprimand to the speed of his limbs. Now he wrote with the motos of one whose flesh is passing into less visible manners. At times he returned to more concrete motions to befriend the handmaiden of his flesh, but gradually he longed for the complete secrecy of written creation, enjoying the novelty of a hiding place. In nineteen sixty-two he died with a grin at the fact that literature and art in America were still presenting a mildewed decorous mean. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Candid narrative. By Maxwell Bodenheim. Read for LibriVox.org by Wes Freeman. One. A chorus girl falls asleep and, in a dream, speaks to a former lover. In her dream she holds the intelligence of a poet, but still clings to certain of the qualities and mannerisms of her wakeful self. Say, kid, I'm in a candid mood. The kind of mood that silences the babbling dampness of my character. I'm feeling as improbable as an overworked Grecian myth fainting amid the smells of a ghetto. Now, hypocrisy always slinks along, winking an opaque eye at reality, but when he spies a fantasy he feels disgraced and leaves in haste. What's the use of telling a lie to a lie? So, since I'm only a dream, listen to my candid scream. You like to press a ruse cheek against your obscurity, like a third-rate poet pasting a sunset upon his emptiness. Bashful mount of banks like you can seduce the eloquent delusion of time and give it a speechless limp. The insincere trickle of your words was neither silence nor sound, but falteringly tempted both, like a tiny fountain unnoticed at the feet of two large coquettes. The intricate laziness of your dimpled face received a petulantly naked ghost of thought and seized it without desire. Again it held the furbished effigies of sensuality and tried to give them life from the weariness of my face. Yet I could have endured you, but for the fact that your mustache scraped across my lips like a clumsy imitation of passion. Trivial insults have tumbled down the pillared complacency of empires just as the thrust of your lips tripped my mercenary balance. My lover now has the face of a dog, with each corner of his lips pointing to a different heaven, yet his greed and melancholy sometimes fondle each other upon the pressures of his mouth, and the monotony of his kiss does not dissolve my stoicism. Women who measure their gifts for lovers never hope for more than this. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Unliterary and shameless by Maxwell Bodenheim. Read for LibriVox.org by Wes Freeman. 2. A young woman who has been renounced by her lover, because of her lack of culture, answers his derision. Your cloistered naughtiness makes me as boisterous as a savage attending a menstrual show of regrets. The pampered carefulness with which you distill a series of standardized perfumes from life takes its promenade between the realms of sanity and madness. You are too precise to be quite sane and too evasive to be insane, and all that you have left me is a mood of windy sadness, emotions becoming verbose in a last, thin effort to persuade themselves that they loved a jewel that slipped from your fingers. Your mind is a limpid warehouse, filled with other men's creations, and you pilfer a bit from each, disguising the scheme of your culture. I would rather be a naked fool than a full-gowned erudite imitation of other men's hands. I shall marry a desperado, and give him strength with which to paint black angels and muscular contortions on panels of taffeta. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. 2. Sonnets to My Wife by Maxwell Bodenheim. Read for LibriVox.org by Wes Freeman. 1. Because her voice is Schoenberg in a dream in which his harshness plays with softer keys, this does not mean that it is void of ease and cannot gather to a strolling gleam. Her voice is full of manners, and they seem to place a masquerade on thought and tease at strength until it finds that it has knees and whimsically leaves its heavy scheme. Discords can be the search of harmony for worlds that lie beyond the reach of poise, and must be captured with abandoned hands. The music of my wife strives to be free, and often takes a light, unbalanced voice, while madly walking over thoughtful lands. 2. My wife relents to life and does not speak each moment with a deft and rapid note. Sometimes a clumsy weirdness finds in her throat and ushers in a music that is weak and bargains with a groping of her heart. But even then she plays with graver tones that do not sell themselves to laughs and moans, but seek the counsel of a deeper art. She drapes her loud emotions in a shroud of glistening thought that waves above their dance and sometimes parts to show their startled eyes. The depths of mind within her have not bowed to sleek emotion with its amorous glance. She slaps its face and laughs at its surprise. And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. Finalities by Maxwell Bordenheim Read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Canada. 1. Pretend that night is grandiose, the stars win graves in every ditch. Pretend that moonlight is verbose and affable, like some grand mare, and men will say that your despair seduces luminous conceits, or call you an anemic fool who stuffs himself with curdled sweets. Thus sentenced to obscurity you can find more turbulent lips and spaciously retreat from men immersed in pedestals and whips. Amusedly you can say that stars are wisened jests on every ditch, that moonlight is a trick that jars your mind intent on other minds. Having agreed upon your station men will no longer heed your words, and with a galloping elation you can contradict yourself in peace. 2. The wary perturbations of convinced and secretly disdainful men are mild and deftly tepid to the ears of one who entertains a careless, ungloved child. Above the sprightly idleness of plates men sit in fain industrious respect, with eyebrows often slightly ill at ease, cats in an argument are more erect. At last the tactful lustres of farewells are traded, each man strolls off and forgets the other. Not a frill is disarranged. The tension dexterously avoids regrets. Two men have unveiled carved finalities and made apologies for the event, with voices well acquainted with a task devoid of nakedness and ornament. And each man might have murmured, Yes, I know what you will say and what I shall reply. And each man might have watched the other man smile helplessly into his mutton pie. 3. This farcical clock is copying a woodchopper with nimble poise, while time, with still and fluid strides, perplexedly listens to the noise. The room that holds this joke is filled with the relaxed complacencies of poets hiding from themselves with measured trivialities. But one among them walks about and watches with embarrassed eyes. The others do not speak to him. His nudeness is a tight disguise. This fool is anxious to display interrogations of his mind to poets who at work and play are isolated from their kind. Reluctantly he finds his room, sits on the floor with legs tucked in, and grins up at another clock aloofly measuring its din. 4. When you are tired of ogling moltenly, your undertones explosively confess. A shop girl coughing over her cigarette expresses the burlesque of your distress. Take your cocaine. It leaves a blistering stain, but phantom diamonds are immune from greed. You pluck them from the buttons of your vest, wildly apologizing for your need. Take more. Redress the thinness of your neck with diamonds. Entertain them with your breast. Cajole them on the floor with fingertips that cannot pause, dipped in a demon's zest. If you had not relented to a man who meddled with your face and stole your clothes, your shrill creative pleasures might be still incarcerated in the usual pose. Hysteria shot its fist against your face one day and left the blood spot of your mouth. But when the morning strikes you, there will be more than hysteria in your answering shout. 5. Laughter is a skeleton's applause. Grief sells increase to sterility. Happiness protects its subtle flaws. These three significances make the part of you that men can see. As you recline upon this bed, your hand defending one bare knee, your shoulders trapped upon the quilt. But under the warm surface tree that turns your flesh, another form abstractly bellicose and free attacks the answer of your blood. Freedom is the lowest note of slavery, and slavery the lowest of freedom. You can feel the charm of your servility. True, you were once a chambermaid who won a thief and spoke to grief. And now your limbs have numbly strayed. Are these not harmless travesties? 6. Snobbs have pockets into which they crowd too many trinkets. You feel this, talking to the rich and lightly bulging Mount Bank. Untie the knots that close your bag and tempt him with a creed or need. Be as loquacious as a hag who loves the details of her wares. There is a relish when you speak to one who cannot understand. You celebrate upon a peek and prod his helpless effigy. This is an unimportant game to men evading holidays, but introspection becomes tame unless it complements itself. The lightly bulging Mount Bank is but an interval in which you take your garments off and thank the privacy that he bestows. 7. Like other men you fly from adjectives. The plain terceness that lives in verbs and nouns creates a panorama where you know that men are not a cloud of romping clowns. You greet the wideness of eternal curves where beauty, death, and silence give their height to those rare men who do not play with thought. But this fruit peddler decorates his fright and polishes his peaches and his grapes insanely. If his mercenary hopes were bolder, he would be a nimble poet. Slight with her bridal gown, his mind elopes with adjectives that find her incomplete. Your mind is hard and massively parades across the earth with Homer and Villain. Since each of you with common sense evades monotony, I join you and refuse to call you dwarf or giant. Let the fools who criticize you bind you with these names and separate your dead bones with their rules. 8. Dead men sit down beside the telephones within your brain and carefully relate decisions and discretions of the past, convinced that they will not deteriorate. But you have not their certainty. You try a question now and then that cautiously assaults their whispered indolence until their sharp words once more force you to agree. Then you insist that certain living men whose tones are half discreet may be allowed to greet their masters through the telephones provided that their words are not too loud. The new men imperceptibly entice their elders and a compromise is made. Both sides discovering that two or three excluded men must be correctly flayed. And so the matter ends. Conservative and radical revise their family tree, while you report this happening with relief to liberals in victorious cups of tea. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. You have escaped the comedy, of swift, pretentious praise and blame, and smashed a tavern where they sell, the harlots' wine that men call fame. Heralds of reckless solitude have offered you another voice. But men are still attempting jest. You, Roman, cannot make a choice, when you have played distractedly with the humility you tire, and changed the pastime to a pride. These are but moods of one desire. You throw an imitating gleam upon the dwarfs that line your road. Then with a worn hostility you trample long beneath your load. 2. Woman. To hide your isolation you become, tame and loquacious, bowing to the men, who bring you ornaments and properties. Your cryptic melancholy dwindles then, soft by the distant contrast of your words. Your loneliness, with an amused relief, sits listening to your volubility, and idling with an innervated grief. The play does not begin until you say, Your last good night, for you have only made. A swindled fantasy regain its parts. Throughout the night you held an unseen blade, upon your lap untrifled with its hilt, and now you lift it with submissive dread. Should you attack your loneliness and grief, now that they are asleep, you shake your head. 3. Child. Like puffs of smoke inquisitively blown, across the slight transparency of dawn, the births of thought disperse upon your face, a tenuous arrogance when they have gone, clings to its tiny wisdom and denies. The feeble challenge, warm emotions swarm, upon the flushed impatience of your face, and merge to lordly evanescence form. New sights bring light to pressure into your mind. You struggle with a hunger that transcends, the glistening in decisions of your eyes, and winds afflating certainty. Your trends lead to a fabled turmoil that escapes, the stunted messengers of trembling thought, yet when your hand for moments closes tight, you feel a dagger that your fears have caught. 4. Old Man. Below your skull a social gathering glows. Make animosities exchange a last, chat with the emotional ambassadors, who honour the importance of your past. You turn your hammock in surrender limbs, to sunlight and increase the hammock's swing, as though you swavly bargained with a friend. Its answers are impersonal and boring, a tolerance that wounds your lack of strength, a final insurrection cleaves your rest, you raise your back, then lower it to convinced. That motion now would be a needless test, and with your falling back, the gathering, within your head melts through a door, chagrined, and everything within you dies except a blue and golden hammock in the wind. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Uneasy Reflections by Maxwell Bodenheim. Read for LibreVox.org by Sarah Brown, S.E.V. Determinately peppered with signs, the omnibus ambles without curiosity. South Hampton Row, Malburn Road, Charing Cross. These names have no relation to the buildings they partition. If one mutters, I shall go to Euston Road, imagination is relieved of all errands, and decently ticketed enters the omnibus. If one muttered, I shall go to protesting angles, surreptitiously middle-aged, and find a reticent line to play with, one would violate the hasty convenience of labels, and seriously examine one's destination. If poplar trees, brief violets, and green glades on any country road had each received an incongruous name, Smith's Tree, C. Jackson's Clump, or Ferguson's Depression, and city streets had never known a label, most poets would have turned their fluid obsession on lamp posts and the grandeur of ash cans. It would be grimly realistic now to write about a violet or a cow. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. More Evening, New York Subway Station by Maxwell Bodenheim Read for LibriVox.org by April 6-0-9-0, California, United States of America. Perspiring violence derides. The pathetic collapse of dirt, in effervescence of noises, depends upon cement for its madness. Electric light is taut and dull, like a nauseated suspense. This kind of heat in the recollection of an orgy in a swamp. Soiled caskets joined together, slide to rasping stand stills. People savagely tamper with each other's bodies, scampering in and out of doorways, weighted with apathetic bales of people. The soiled caskets rattle on. The scene consists of mosaics, jerkly pieced together and blown apart. A symbol of billowing torment. This sturdy girl leans against an iron girder. Weariness has loosened her face, with its shining cruelty. Round and poverty stricken, her face renounces life. Her white cotton waist is a wet skin on her breast. Her black hat, crisp and delicate, does not understand her head. An old man stoops beside her, sweat and wrinkles erupting. From the blunt remnants of his face, a little black pot of a hat, corrupts his grey-haired head. Two figures on a subway platform pieced together by an old complaint. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Garbage heap by Maxwell Bodenheim. Red for LibriVox.org By April, 6-0-9-0, California, United States of America. The wind was shrill and mercenary, like a housewife pacing down the sky. Green weeds and tin cans in the yard made a debris of ludicrous dissipations. The ochre of cold elations had settled on the cans. Their brilliant labels peeped from the weeds, like the remains of a charlatan. A bone reclined against a pen's post, and moldily congratulated life. A woman's garter wasted its faded frills, upon a newspaper argument. The shipwrecked rancor of bottles and boxes was pressed to disfigure complexities. A smell of torrential asperity knew the spirit of the yard. Contented or incensed, the wreckage stood in the yard, one shade below the sardonic. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Impulsive Dialogue by Maxwell Bodenheim Poet read by Larry Wilson. Undertaker read by Nima. Will you, like other men, offer me indigo indignities? Indigo indignities. The words are like a mermaid and a saint, doubting each other's existence with a kiss. The words of most men kiss with satiated familiarity. Indigo is dark and vehement, but one word in place of two, angers barmaids and critics. Straining after originality you argue with its ghost. A simple beauty like mourning, harnessed by a wide sparkle and plotting into the hearts of men, cannot reach your frantic juggling. I can appreciate the spontaneous redundancy of nature without the aid of an echo, for men who lack her impersonal size. The sweeping purchase of an evening by an army of stars, the bold incoherence of love, the peaceful mountain roads of friendship. These things evade your dexterous epigrams. A statue polished in large dominates when it stands alone. Placed in a huge profusion of statues, its outlines become humiliated. Simplicity demands one gesture, and men give it endless thousands. Complexity wanders through a forest, glimpsing details in the gloom. I do not crave the dainty pleasure of chasing ghosts in a forest. Nor do I care to pluck exaggerated mushrooms in the gloom. I have lost myself on roads, crossed by tossing host of men. Pain and anger have scorched our slow feet. Peace has washed our forehands. Futility, massive and endless, captures a stumbling grandeur embalmed in history. In my forest you could see this from a distance and lose your limited intolerance. Simplicity and subtlety, at different times, are backgrounds for each other, changing with the position of our eyes. Death will burn your eyes with his tacheturn complexity. Death will strike your eyes with his wild simplicity. Ghosts are soldiers of fortune, hired by different ideas, to provide an importance for life. But within the glens of silence they meet in secret peace. Undertaker, do you make of death a puffing wretch forever pursued by duplicates of vanquished forms? Or do you make him a sneering king, brushing flies from his bloodless cheeks? Do you see him as an unappeased brooding, walking over the dust of men? Do you make him an eager giant, discovering and blending into his consciousness the tiny parts of his limitless mind? Death and I do not know each other. I am the stallid janitor, who cleans the litter he has left, and claims a fancy payment. Come to my fantastic forest, and you will not need to rise from simple labours, asking death for final wages. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Emotional Monologue by Maxwell Boddenheim Red4Libervox.org A man is sitting within the enigmatic turmoil of a railroad station. His face is narrow and young, and his nose, lips, and eyes, carved to a semitic sharpness, have been sundered by a bloodless catastrophe. A traveling bag stands at his feet. Within him people are clutching farewells and shouting greetings. Within him a monologue addresses an empty theater. I am strangling emotions, and casting them into the seats of an empty theater. When my lifeless audience is complete, the ghosts of former emotions will entertain their dead masters. After each short act, a humorous ghost will fly through the audience, striking the limp hands into applause, and between the acts, sepulchral indifference will mingle with the dust upon the backs of seats. On the stage, a melodrama and a travesty will romp against a backdrop of fugitive resignation. Climax and anti-climax will jolt each other and drift into a cheated insincerity. Sometimes the lights will retire, while a shriek and a laugh make a martyr of the darkness. When the lights reappear, an actor ghost will assure the audience that nothing has happened, save the efforts of a fellow ghost to capture life again. In his role of usher, another ghost will arrange the lifeless limbs of the audience into postures of relief. Sometimes a comedy will trip the feet of an assassin, declaring that if ghosts were forced to undergo a second death, their thinness might become unbearable. At other times, indignant tragedy will banish an intruding farce, claiming that life should not retain the luxury of another laugh. The first act of the play will show the owner of the feather conversing with the ghost of a woman. As unresponsive as stone, solidly repelling a spectral world, his words will kingly betray the bloodless control of his features. He will say, with slightly lowered shoulders, because of a knife sticking in my back, I shall trifle with crowded highways, buying decorations for an interrupted bridal party. This process will be unimportant to the workshop of my mind, where love and death are only colorless problems upon a chart. The ghost of the woman will say, Your mind is but the rebellious servant of sensitive emotions, and brings them clearer dominance. And what shall I mournfully answer? I am strangling emotions, and casting them into the seats of an empty feather. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Pronounced Fantasy by Maxwell Bordenheim, right for LibriVox.org by Rich Montna Teter. A negro girl with skin as black as a psychic threat, and plentiful swirls of blonde hair sat at a badly-tuned piano, and vanquished her fingers upon the keys, a midnight hesitation, fasting itself on her face, quivering over the shrouded prominence of her lips and nose. Her dress was pink and short, and hung upon her tall, thin body. Like a lesson in buffoonry, she lectured her heart on the piano, with violins of minor chords. Her voice was a prisoner, whose strong hands turned the bars of her cell into musical strings. Went to Houston to get my trunk, didn't get my trunk, but I got damn drunk. Well, I'm satisfied, cause I gotta be. The negro girl turned and cursed, with religious incision, at a parrot in a white spitton. He pumped his derision, while she played another tune. Then he saw her long-blown hair, and paused in the midst of a squawk. Verse 2 I found the negro girl, walking down a rural track. The unconscious hum of sunlight, disputed the gloom of her skin. Her gray and dirty clothes, disgraced the haste of her body. Her feet and arms were bare, and thin, essential disappointments. An axe stood straight upon the blonde attention of her hair. The upturned remonstrance of her head, revealed her balance and effort. Back in the mo' intense food, she dined upon the air, and sang with losing despair. Gotta lay my head right down upon that, down upon that railroad track. Gotta rest my head right down upon that railroad track. And when the train's gone by, boy, I'm gonna snatch it back. The negro girl received my gaze, and it broke on her poignant face. Why do you carry the egg? I said, if I could only hate it less, I might break it, and undress it. She answered with motionless lips, and of poem. This recording is in the public domain. When Spirits Speak of Life by Maxwell Boddenheim First Spirit, read by Larry Wilson. Third Spirit, read by Neema. Three spirits sit upon a low stone wall, placed on the top of a hill. Their figures are gray, with human outlines, and their faces are those of a boy, a woman, and an old man. Light is greeting intimations of evening. The wall, the hill, and the figures exist only to the spirits who have created them. We have made a wall, and take it gravely. The pensive vagary that led us to return to earth welcomes these pretty illusions. Stone wall, hill, and evening become the touch of spice precious to our weariness. The animated brevity of this world is captivating. We have journeyed inward to the ever-distant center of life, where language is a universe seething with variations, and form becomes a changing warmth of wrestling influences, where motion is the plunging light of thoughts dying upon each other. We find an incredulous pleasure in changing from violent influences to breath that is mutilated with outlines. With a subtle suspicion we greet the tiny fables of our hands and feet. We take the little blindness of eyes to reassure ourselves that the fables will not vanish. Humorously we trade languages like one who gives a plateau for a drop of old liquor. Once we were germs of thought, squirming under elastic disguises, the bank clerk inscribing tombstones, the poet playing surgeon to his heart, the cardinal starving his flesh. Our bodies were images made by thought and symbolizing the pain of its birth. Murder, love, and theft were only struggling experiments made by germs of thought emerging to form. What men call mysticism is the lull in which their germ of thought compensates itself by dreaming of a future form. But when the struggle is resumed, it often derides its inactivity, scorning the brilliant trance of its exhaustion. And now three tired spirits seeking a weird trinket of the past has slipped into a replica of birth. Because the gliding search of our life is lacking in one quality, amusement, we shall often return to evenings, men, and walls of stone. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Insanity by Maxwell Bodenheim, read for LibriVox.org by Eva Davis. Insanity. Geroid Latour was a lean, grandiose Frenchman whose curly beard resembled a cluster of ripe raspberries. His lips were maroon-colored and slightly distended, as though forever slyly inviting some stubbornly inarticulate thought, as though slyly inviting Geroid Latour. A man's lips and beard are two-thirds of his being, unless he is an anchorite, and even in that case it can become impressively stunted. Geroid Latour was an angel rolling in red mud. From much rolling he had acquired the pert raspberry beard, struggling lips, and the surreptitious grandeur of a nose. But the plastic grin of a singed angel sometimes listened to his face. His wife, having futilely tried to wrench his beard off, sought to reach his eyes with a hatpin. This is unnecessary, he expostulated. Another woman once did it much better, with a word. A plum-colored parrot in the room shrieked, I am dumb, I am dumb. Geroid Latour had painted it once, in a sober moment. Geroid and his wife wept over the parrot, slapped each other regretfully, and sat down to eat a pair. A little girl ran into the room. Her face was like a candied moon. My mother has died, and my father wants a coffin, she said. Geroid Latour rubbed his hands into a perpendicular lester. He was a facetiously candid undertaker. He took the hand of the little girl whose face was like a candied moon, and they ambled down the street. I have lost my friendship with gutters, mused Geroid. Gering down as he walked, they quarreled with bits of orange peel and pins. Patiently they wait for the red rain that men give them every two hundred years. Brown and red always sweep toward each other. Men are often unknowingly killed by these two huge colors treading the insects upon a path and walking to an ultimate tristing place. The little girl whose face was like a molasses crescent cut off one of her yellow curls and hung it from her closed mouth. Why are you acting in this way, asteroid? It's something I've never done before, she answered placidly. Geroid stroked his raspberry beard with menacing longing, but could not quite induce himself to pull it off. It would have been like cutting the throat to this mistress. They passed an insincerely littered courtyard, tamed beneath its grey tatters, and saw a black cat chasing a yellow cat. A cat never eats a cat. Goldfish and dead lions are more to his taste, said Geroid. Indulgingly he flees from other cats or pursues them in turn. I see that you dislike melodrama, observed a bulbous woman in penitent lavender, who is beating a carpet in the courtyard. You're mistaken. Melodrama is a weirdly drunken plausibility and cannot sincerely be disliked, said Geroid. But I must not leave without complimenting your lavender wrapper. Few people have mastered the art of being profoundly ridiculous. I can see that you're trying to be ridiculously profound, said the woman, as she threw a bucket of stale water at Geroid. He fled down the street, dragging the child with him. They left the cumbersome sterility of the city behind them and passed into the suburbs. Here we have a tragedy and shades of naked inertness, said Geroid, to the little girl. I don't quite understand you, answered the little girl. I see nothing but scowls and brownness. A tree stood out like the black veins on an unseen fist. A square house raised its toothless snarl and all the other houses were jealous imitators. Wooden fences crossed each other with dejected mathematical precision. A rat underneath a veranda scuffled with an empty candy box. The green of dried grasses spread out like poisonous impotence. Here is the house where my mother lies dead, said the little girl. Her father, peace germinating into greasy overalls, came down the steps. His blue eyes were parodies of the sky, discs of sinisterly humorous blue. His face reminded one of a pair that had been stepped on, resiliently flattened. I have come to measure your wife for her coffin, said Geroid Latour. You'll find her at the bottom of the well in the backyard, answered the man. Trying to cheat a poor old undertaker out of his business, said Latour waggishly. Now I'll leave that to death, said the man. Come inside and warm your candor. No, thank you. Shrieks travel faster through the open air, said Geroid, squinting at the man sportively, surruly in eyes. Come out to the well and we'll haul her up, said the man. The little girl darted into the house, like a disappointed hobgoblin. Geroid Latour followed the man to the well at the rear of the house. Suddenly he saw a mountainous washerwoman dancing on her toes over the black loam. Her sparse grayish black hair flapped behind her like a dishrag, and her naked body had the color of trampled snow. An empty beer bottle was balanced on her head. She had the face of an old Columbine who still thought herself beautiful. A neighbor of mine said the man in an odd voice. She was a ballet dancer in her youth, and every midnight she makes my backyard a theater. In the morning she scrubs my floors. Here in my backyard, she chases the phantoms of her former triumphs. Moonlight turns her knee joints into miracles. Ah, from enormous wildness and pretense squeezed together comes the little drop of happiness, said Geroid Latour sentimentally. My wife objected to my joining this woman's midnight dance in the man. To prevent her from informing the police, I killed her. I could not see a miracle ruined. Only the insane are entertaining, answered Geroid. The egoism of sane people is gruesome, a modulated scale of complacent gayities, but insane people often display an artificial ego which is divine. The artist, gracefully gesticulating about himself, on his divine is hideous, but if he danced on a boulder and waved a lilac bow in one hand and a broom in the other, one could respect him. As Geroid finished talking, the mountainous washerwoman drew nearer and stopped in front of the man. Blossoming glints of water dropped from her grayish white skin. You haven't killed me yet, my dear husband, she shouted to the man. Then, snatching the beer bottle balanced on her head, she struck at him. Geroid fled to the front gate and sped down the road. Looking back from a safe distance, he saw the mountainous woman, the man and the little child, earnestly gesticulating in the moonlight. End of story. This recording is in the public domain. Piedree by Maxwell Bordenheim, read for labourvox.org by Richmond Na Tete. Morning light anxiously pinched the cheeks of these poplar trees. The silver blood rushed to their faces and they blashed. The garden walls forgot their stolidity for a moment and seemed inclined to leap away, but became sober again, resisting the twinkling trickery of morning light. Airely suspended tales in light and colour of no importance to philosophies hung over the scene. Only a snail underneath the trees, steeped in a creeping evening, lived apart from the crisp medley of morning lights. Laborously, the snail moved through his explanation of the universe, but to blades of grass, the alive, testily scented in green, the morning was a mysterious pressure. The morning glowed over the garden like an incoherent rhapsody. It slacked other and thought, and the serious eyes of teachers and jesters would have spanned it. But half its bowling, working between rows of cold peonies, regarded the morning with harsh approval and spoke. You have the brightness and flatness of a distracted virgin, but your eyes are mildly opaque. The tinsel swiftness of a courtesan's memories is yours, but your heart is as shy as a cling of glass. You glow like an incoherent rhapsody over the peonies in this garden. A woman whose painted face was a lurid snail tapped bowling on the shoulder. Her red hair was brushed upward into a pinnacle of banished frenzy. Her blue, serged dress cast its plaintive monotone over the body of a Sargent Amazon. A pink straw hat dangled from her hand. Bowling allowed his admiration to bow. Babyish lips slipping from you would make your gruesomeness perfect, madam, he said. I don't get your friend, she responded. I'm a sporting lady from the roadhouse down the way, and I'm out for a morning walk. Who planted you here, old duck? I'm a cow browsing amidst the peonies, said bowling seriously. Without a thought, I feed on light and color. You don't look like a cow, said the woman dubiously. Maybe you're spoofing me, you funny old turnip. No, I only jest with the morning, bowling answered unperturbed. It ignores me with soaring colors, and I prefer this to the minute antagonisms of human beings. You don't understand the word I say. You bend beneath tipped apprehension, so I find a pleasure in speaking to you. It's like humming a laugh song to a mad tittle. Don't get insulting, said the woman with disgruntled amazement. I think you are crazy. Bowling turned with a smile like a distant spark and walked away between the peonies. The woman regarded him a moment, while a fascinated frown battled with her painted face. Then she strode after him and gripped his arm. Hey, what you're leaving me for, she said in the piteously straightened voice. For the peonies in this garden, answered bowling mildly. Listen, don't get mad at me, she said. I don't care whether you are crazy or not, I like your face. Bowling gazed at her while sorrow loosened his face and made it glistened spatiously. Can you become as spontaneously tranquil as these peonies? He asked. The woman tended him her dazed frown, like an anxious servant. Work with me and be quiet unless I ask you to speak, said bowling with saddened harshness. Obediently, she laid a hand on his arm and they strode down the path between the peonies. She sided along like an inspired puppet. She seemed a doll touched to life by some Christ. Upon her painted face, a nun and a violin scrapped tentatively and her lips made a red scarf falling from the scrubber. Bowling left the peonies and wandered down the road. They came upon a boulder cloud in an outline of smashed spears. Queen Annie's lace grew close to its base, like the remnants of some revel. This is the head of a philosopher, said Bowling. The woman jerkingly turned her body, while pallid perplexity ate into her paint and made her face narrow. You can't speak, said Bowling. It looks like a rock she answered in the voice of a child clinking his fetus. We are both spoken worse, said Bowling modally. The shy blindness on her face glided to and fro, like a prisoner. As she strode Bowling, she still seemed a puppet drug along the dust of a road by some Christ. Bowling's middle-aged face whistled, with limpid chagrin to his youth. His high cheekbones were like hidden fists straining against his shallow skin. They came upon the dead rabbit stifling by the roadside. Berry him, said Bowling gravely. The woman clutched at her habitual self. Say what's the idea, she asked in a shrily lengthened voice. Berry him, repeated Bowling gravely. With a dazed giggle, she picked a dead branch from the ground and chopped at the loose black loam. Then she gingerly prudered the dead rabbit with a branch, shoving it into the depression she had made. She scooped earth over it with her foot. Now we are both crazy. She said uncertainly, and her never-smile was the jagged wreck of her silver helmet. You have buried your meekness, said Bowling, calmly amused. Now work beside me and do not speak, unless, being brave, you desire to leave me. The woman stood gaping at him, like a vision poignantly doubting the magician who was created. Solanness made her lips straight for a moment, then faded into twitching hour. She slid her arm into his, and once more seemed a doll dragged along the dust of a road by some distracted giant. Bowling retraced his steps. He and the woman passed by the garden of cold peonies, and came to a bend in the road. Late afternoon, blonded sedately through shades of green foliage beneath them. Below the hilltop on which they stood, a band-like house crouched. It's time ceremony repelling the afternoon light. The woman tapped her chin with two fingers in a drumbeat of reality. Gotta get back to work, oh dear, she said, amiably squinting at Bowling. Bowling's solo face shook once, and became chiseled apathy. So do I, he answered. His voice, like the accidental ring of light metals. I'm the new waiter fully hired last week. You have been too busy to notice me much. For a full minute, the woman stood staring at him. Her hands upon her hips, her slightly bulging gray eyes, like water drops threatening to roll down her shattered face. You are the guy they called Nautilui, she said at last, as though confiding a ludicrous list message to herself. Then for another full minute, she stood staring at him. We are back house, she said in a mesmerized whisper. Back house. Bowling worked forward without a word. The woman gave the team for a moment, and then run after him, as she had in the Garden of Peonies. End of story. This recording is in the public domain. All wave rose as high as the other and ended in a swan's neck of white interrogation. Sunlight blinded the water as style dazed the contents of a poem, and the blue sky lifted itself to symmetrical stupor. The air fell against one like a soothing religion. The bristling melancholy of pine trees lined the wide river, but Alventor sat in his floating rowboat and read the Bible. He read the songs of Solomon, and a sensual pantomime made a taunt stage of his face. When not reading the songs of Solomon, he was as stately poised as a monk's folded arms. He had borrowed the colors of his life from that spectrum of desire, which he called God. Different shades of green leaves were, to him, the playful jealousies of a presence, the tossed colors of birds became the ineffably light gestures of a lost poet. His Swedish peasant's face had singed its dimples in a bit of sophistication, but his eyes were undeceived. His heart was a secluded soliloquy, transforming the shouts of the world into tinkling surmises. His broad nose and long lips were always at ease, and his rooty skin held the texture of fresh bunting. His eyes knew the unkindled reticence of a rustic boy. This man of one mood sat in his floating rowboat reading the Bible. He reached the mouth of the river and drifted out to sea. The sea was a menacing lethargy of rhythm. Green swells sensed his rowboat with dramatic leisure. A seagull skimmed over the water like a haphazard adventure. Looking up from his Bible, Alventor saw the body of a woman floating beside his boat. With one jerk his face swerved into blankness. The tip of his tongue met his upper lip as though it were a fading rim of reality. The fingers of one hand distressed his flaxen hair. The woman floated on her back with infinite abandon. Little ripples of green water died fondling her body. The green swells barely lifting her were great rhythms disturbed by an inert discord. Sunlight fumbling at her body relinquished its promiscuous desires and became abashed. Her wet brown hair had a drug gentility. Its short dark curls hugged her head with despondent understanding. Her face had been washed to an imperturbable transparency. It had the whiteness of reclining foam overcast with a twinge of green. The sea had lent her its skin. Her eyes were limply unworried and violated to gray disintegration. In separated bits of outlines, the remains of thinly impudent features were slipping from her face. The bloated pity of black and white garments hid her lean body. As Alventor watched her, tendrils of peace gradually interfered with the blankness on his face. His lips sustained an unpremeditated repose. A sensitive compassion dropped the sparks of its coming into his eyes. His clothes became a jest upon an inhuman body. The earth of him effortlessly transcended itself in the gesture of his arm flung out to the woman. Impalpable relic of a soul, the spirit you held must have severed its shadow to preserve you forever from the waves, he said, his face blindfolded with ecstasy. For you grasp the water with immortal relaxation. You are not a body. You are beauty receding into the resistless seclusion. Kind fool, musically stifling himself in a rowboat, made kind by the desperate tenderness of a lie, you are serenading the chopped bodies of your emotions, said the woman. Alventor's face cracked apart in the incredulous hurrying ghost of a child nodded a moment and was snuffed out. Mermaid of haunting despondency, what are you? he asked. I am the symbol of your emotions, the woman answered. I made them roses stepped upon by God, said Alventor. I am the symbol of your emotions, said the woman. Alventor heavily dropped his raised arm, like a man smashing a trumpet. Restless white hands compressed the rooty broodness of his face. The woman slid into the green swells like exhausted magic. Alventor rode back to the river. Part 2 A woman lifted the green window shades in her room and resentfully blinked at the sun plastered clamors of a street. She turned to the bed upon which another woman reclined. Say, wasn't that a nutty drunk we had last night? She said, hugging a bible and raving about waves and mermaids and a lot of funny stuff. She dropped the green shade and stood against it a moment in the smoldering gloom of the room. Her brown hair had a drug gentility. Its short dark curls hugged her head with despondent understanding. Her face had been washed into an imperturbable transparency. It had the whiteness of reclining foam overcast with a twinge of green. The sea had lent her its skin. End of story. This recording is in the public domain. Scientific Philosophy by Maxwell Budenheim Rev for LibriVox.org by April 6090, California, United States of America The concentrated vehemence of a mountain halted against the sky in a thin line of thwarted hostility. A waterfall hurtled its crazed parabola between gray rocks flying into a stifled scream of motion far below. When the pine trees moved, a mathematician solved his problems and his acrid exultation hypnotized the air. The pungent trusilence of earth that had never been stepped on raised its brown shades. Eric Lane stopped in an alcove of pine trees, lifted a pack from his back, pitched his tent, and broke dead pine branches across his knee. There were scars on his face where philosophies had broken and died, and the beaming redundancy of one that survived, for Eric believed that the visible and audible surface of man's conduct and dreams were interpreted and compared could reveal his frustrated hungers. Metaphysics to him was a beggar rattling his chains into insincere victories of sound, a beggar painting seraphs upon the strained finality of his brain. Eric looked up from his task of breaking dead pine branches. A first shade of twilight climbed the mountain, like a dazed negro runner. The mountain impassively confessed that its vehemence had been a lie. It met the sky with an immense line of collapsed reticence. The waterfall became the squirming of a white kermit who finds a black stranger invading his cell. Twilight was a body gradually returning to the festooned skeletons of the pine trees. The rocks were enticed into attitudes. One was a giant foundling, the spear, that had wounded him. Another curved over like a gray serf who had broken his back. Eric stared at a huge rock standing on the mountain side and outlined against the distant base of a second mountain. It held the tensely embalmed profile of a woman. Her rigidly wobagon features had withdrawn from some devil's cliff of desire. They made a line of incomplete crucifixion. Her hidden eyes germinated into ghouls stealthily absorbing the gray harvest of her face. Designed by a shattered surmise, her face retreated from the valley. Her forehead was like a sword cracked in the middle. Her nose and lips were the remains of an autopsy on emotion. Demons and virgins had gained one grave in the grayness assailing her face. Eric regarded her at first with a celebrating skepticism. Then Salonists slowly marked his face into a hanging scroll of terror. Lightness vanished from his black hair and it became a charred crown. He troddered three steps in the direction of the rock face and then, with unannounced dexterity, a smile revived his face. The diminutive city of his mind had sent his Lord Mayor to restore him. Eric returned to his task of breaking dead pine branches. The diminutive city of his mind sent slender pans into electric threads. Eric kindled the branches into a fire and a carnival of flames pirouetted into startled death. Eric stretched his arms out like a concubine stroking the walls of her black tent and his face became idly immobile. Then he altered completely in the leap of a moment as though slipping from a loose costume with infinite ease. His face stiffened into the unearthly equilibrium of thought, witnessing the torture of emotion. The fire, to him, became a gaudy funeral pyre. When sleep finally interfered with his face, he dropped slowly to the ground like satiated revenge. When he awoke, morning assaulted the gaunt seen with unceremonious clarity. The mountain became a senseless giant. The waterfall changed to a commonplace ribbon and the pine trees blended into the lethargy of dwarfs. The gray rock on the mountain was still gashed into the face of a woman, but her outlines were those of a transfigured viagra. Eric strapped on his pack, gazed down at the rock with the smile of a merchant emerging from drunken memories, and strode toward it. When he reached it he hammered away a flat fragment for remembrance and returned to the mountain path with an expressionless face. Eric Lane ended his lecture on scientific philosophy and tapped a desecrating hand for a moment on the profile that had told me a story during his talk. He had left the mountain path, but he was unaware of that. He would have laughed at the idea, like a beggar who rattles his chains into insincere victories of sound. Of that, too, he was unaware. End of story. This recording is in the public domain. of suburban houses. Pale greens surrounded the small square abodes, like an impish irrelevance. Each house carried a shade of dull green, brown, and red, and these shades fitted into each other and made a meekly repressed story. Cinder sidewalks stretched in front of the houses, remorsefully dry remains of fire, sacrificing themselves to occasional feet. The entire scene was an unconscious reflection of the minds of Mrs. Calvin and Mrs. Kildrick, standing on opposite sides of a backyard fence. These women held an unblossoming stoutness, like buds that had swollen enormously but failed to open. Their gray muslin wrappers were too undistinguished to be shrouds and sepulchrally flirted with red ruffles. Mrs. Calvin had an implacably round face, and it reminded one of a merchant scolding an infant. Mrs. Kildrick's face was round, but softer, like that of a frustrated milkmaid. You ought to see her room, said Mrs. Kildrick. It looks like a drunkard's confession, as my husband says, the funniest clay figures and paintings you ever saw. I couldn't believe it when you told me, said Mrs. Calvin. The poor dear looks so respectable. What can be ailing her? She calls it her art, said Mrs. Kildrick. Well, as my husband does say, we should pity those whose minds are a little bit cracked. The ladies continued to adulterate the oneness of their doubts, and the sunlight continued its blunt rummaging way among the rubbish cans and fences. The afternoon jovially began to change its glowing costume for a pretended death scene, studying and lingering over gray effects. Just as its melancholy was heaving toward a climax, Helma Solbert strode up to the cinder-walk leading to Mrs. Kildrick's abode. She was a woman of thirty with a body whose dying youth amply derided middle age. Her overly impertinent face spoke to the first warnings of dissolution, and told them that their coming had been ill-advised. Weary but tenaciously merry, her gray eyes were close to those of one who has made the dagger in his side a cajoling saint. Her little nose was a straight invitation to her widely ripe lips, and they turned upward as if to reach it. She wore a blue-surge suit that was an incongruous commonplace, but did not quite succeed in effacing her. Round and black, her small hat rested lightly upon her brown and abundant hair, like an inconspicuous accident. She entered her room, abandoned her hat and coat, and measured herself in a mirror as though encouraging a stranger to play with his burden. Then a smile of delighted futility plucked at her lips, and she closed her eyes to avoid robbing the stranger of his forlornly puzzling charm. With her eyes still closed she walked to a couch, and stretched out upon it, and everything vanished from her face except its flesh. Framed canvases hung upon the yellow plaster walls of the room, and each frame had a shape that obviously failed to harmonize with the painting it enclosed. Unconscious of the stiff challenges holding them, the canvases stood in the fading afternoon light like a disconnected fable. One above the couch represented a small red apple split by an enormous dark green hatchet. The hatchet had driven one of its points into a wooden table, and slanted steeply upward, its slender handle rising to an upper corner of the painting. Two little hemispheres of red and white apple cowered on each side of the hatchet's blade. The visible, level top of the table was dark brown, and terminated against a feebly violet background. The following sentimental words were painted in black letters high upon the violet. The hatchet struck at weak beauty, but… The canvas was enclosed by a round frame painted in a shade of apple red. Each canvas in the room held the first line of a poem that was completed by the colored forms of the painting, or a last line preceded by visceral symbols. With the air of a fanatic whose blood had tightened into loops of fire that cast their sheen upon his voice, Helma would say to rare visitors viewing her paintings, by blending into one, art, literature, and painting can lose their deficiencies and gain perfection. I am merely experimenting with the crude promise of this future union. On a canvas at the opposite side of the room, a huge, complexly broken arrow emerged from a pale red sky. The black arrow pieces were dotted with tiny yellow, indigo, and pink birds. Dark red lips, each twisted to a different expression, stood in the corners of the canvas. Extending down the left side of the painting, the following line was written in black against a strip of bare canvas. Thus I spoke one afternoon, because… Helma Solbert rose from her couch, lit a candle, and stood before the arrow-framed painting, gazing at it with a pierced and subtly colorless face. Then she turned on an electric light, and its artificial stare, in an instant, brought her an obliterating self-consciousness. With the bearing of one who impudently walks to a gruesome sacrifice, she disappeared behind a lavender screen in a corner of the room and fried her evening meal. When she emerged from the screen, her face had once more perfected its defensive impertinence. Even in her sleep some hours later, her features retained the blurred suspicion of a smile that stayed like a lurking sentinel. The following morning she was too ill to rise, and Mrs. Kildrick summoned a doctor. He was a portly man with a steeply floored face and a dominating beard that had the color of wet sand. While he was in the midst of examining his patient, she rose to a sitting posture and stared at him. You're what I tried to hide from. Why have you come to plague me? she said loudly. End of story. This recording is in the public domain. Music by Maxwell Boddenheim, read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Canada. Olga Crawford fiercely divorced herself from all expression as she maltreated her violin at the symphony-moving picture theatre. In its average moments of vivacity, her face was a dissembling friar who brightly listened to her sensual lips, but as she played, her face became an emptiness profaned by the wail of her instrument. Her arms desecrated their errands and her head sloped into an unwilling counterfeit of wakefulness. On the screen above her, men and women frantically guarded their hallucination of life and a decrepit plot vaguely imitated love and bravery. Rows of faces stolidly massacred the gloom of the theatre and stood like a regiment waiting without thought for some command. But when one looked closer, three expressions broke from the solidity as three major harmonies might charm the mind of a composer. The first was a somnolent elation, the mane of a hungry person dozing over some crumbs he is almost too tired to eat. Shop girls with pertly robbed faces became victims of this expression, although an occasional man with lips like determined fiascos also attained it. The second was a tightly laced impatience, the enmity of one whose feelings have been openly censored. Fat women with flabbily throttled faces and glistening men with bodies like bulky scandals received this expression. The third was a seraphic stupor, the demeanor of one whose formless delights have benignly exiled thought. To Olga these people gathered into a blanched duplicate of life, a remote comedy that made the monotone of her evening self-conscious. If they had excoriated her she could have forgotten them, but their weighty indifference raped her attention. The dryly sinuous smell of their clothes pelted her like a sandstorm. The little desperate perfumes they used scarcely survived. Their eyes were scores of tinnily inviting bull's eyes never reached by her hurried arrows. She finished her playing. The people shuffled out like an apologetic delusion. Farrens, the pianist, a cowed toreador of a man, gave his browns and blacks a ponderous recreation. Another grind passed, he said in a thick voice corrupted by pity. Hand over them sheets, Joe. Joe, fat as a gorman's reverie, handed him the sheets. The features on Joe's face were as abject as crumbs on a shallow plate. The symphony theatre orchestra flaunted its yawning moroseness a little while longer and filed through a low exit. Olga's feet tamely saluted the crowded street pavements. To her the crowd was an approach to the theatre audience, a brisk indifference that made her eyes neglected spend thrifts. Its motion alone gave it a flickering mastery. If it had paused for an hour it would have become anane. The choked tirade of rolling streetcars and automobiles would have ended in a dismal curtain of silence. The chariots would have changed to mere hardware puzzled by the moonlight. A tall woman, encouraging the gorgeous tumult of her dresses, would have stood like a cluttered farce. The little pagan symmetries of her face, godly tantalizing when merely glimpsed, would have met in a kittenish argument. A tall man, blondly governing his polished discrepancies, would have changed to a stagnant buffoon. An old man, chiding his corpulent effulgence with endearments of motion, would have altered to a model in exaggeration. Olga reached her room and summoned the meaningless stare of an electric light. Upon her short body plumpness and slenderness bargained with each other, and the result was a suave arbitration. Her dark green skirt and white waist made a subdued affirmation. Their colored lines did not emphasize the lurking essences of her body. Surrounded by black disturbances, the hair of sardonic parts of her face were molested by sentimental inconsistencies. Her nose was a salient inquisition, but her full mouth had a negroid flash. Her chin was coldly bellicose, but her cheeks were softly turned. Beneath her moderate brow her blue and white eyes were related to glaciers. She sat at an upright piano and trifled with the keys, almost inaudibly. It was midnight, and an acrimonious man in the next room often remonstrated with the wall when her piano conversed too impulsively. Since she was an unknown composer, the moment is appropriate for an attack upon her obscurity. Her music was the compact Sunday of her life. There she deserted the trite miserliness of narrative and definite concepts, and designed a spacious holiday. Her notes loafed and romped into inquisitive patterns, and were only intent upon shifting their positions. Thought and emotion presided over the experimental revels of their servants, but issued no narrow commands, and became broadly festive guidances. In her music the rules of harmony were neither neglected nor worshipped. When they felt an immense friendliness for the romping of her notes, they made a natural background. Otherwise they did not intrude. Her music did not strive to suggest or interpret concepts and pictures, nor did it sell them to emotions. All three were seconds rising and dying as her sounds changed their places. The first few notes of each composition were repeated above as the title, not because they dominated the piece, but merely as a means of identification. In her wanly nondescript room which she did not own, from midnight to dawn, this woman whose face was a bewilderment of contrasts sat furnishing the momentum for a reveling deluge of music. But an evening decided to interrupt this performance. Olga stood in the shop of a neighborhood cobbler. He was afraid apologia, with a scant distraction of gray hair and a dastily crushed face. When you play violin in theatre I have heard, he said, Maybe you would like to hear my boy. He is only eleven, but he play almost so good as you. Maybe you will tell him how he can play better. Olga followed him to the rear of his shop, with a surface purchase of pity. He trotted out his son, a comedy in light browns relieved by the smothered fixity of gray eyes. With whining precision the boy twisted his way through Masinet's elegy, defending each sliding note with his arms and his head. The syrupy embrace of a world stirred upon his acceptant face. The whites of his eyes hovered against Olga's face like a writhing request. In the midst of his playing she turned and fled, terror stricken down the street. End of story. This recording is in the public domain. Ethics by Maxwell Boddenheim, read for Librivox.org by Jason in Canada. Ethel Kern was an acrobat with hernes twelve ring circus, but her bones were riveted together by a precariously brittle dignity, as she paraded down the field of daisies to a cliff at the edge of the sea. Perhaps acrobats walk stiffly during their leisure hours because their bodies become ascetic when released from an unreal sensual agility. Ethel Kern sometimes stooped to pick a daisy, and her body received motion in a deliberately ungallant manner, as though greeting an unwelcome mistress. Her face was an indiscreetly torn screen for emotions that had been dead for many years. Her low forehead broke into the tinly pointed lusters of her features. Her body was as slim as a symbolized cricket's lament. She crossed the field of daisies intensely dissolved into a forethought of afternoon, and stood underneath a tree at the edge of the cliff. As she leaned against the tree it seemed as if a giant had courteously lent his umbrella to a rudely unresponsive dwarf. Below her the sea grunted with automatic fury and receded, like a pleased actor. Winds threw their weird applause against the blue and gray rocks. The calmer air underneath the tree was not unlike a distressed mind caught between the noises. Ethel Kern seated herself beneath the tree and read a paper-bound novel entitled The Fate of Eleanor Martin, but the sea and the rocks interfered too effectively with Eleanor and her pretended life slid into the reality at the foot of the tree, while Ethel peered aggressively down at the waves. A whim winked its narcotic eye at her mind. The waves became fellow-workers, and she was an audience critically examining their turns. A little higher with that green somersault. Come on, old chicken, you can do a longer slide if you try, her mind cried amably. Lost in the syncopation of admiration her body swayed with the waves, and her brown hair went adventuring. Then, like a jilted servant, her mood ran from her, brandishing its abashed haste over her body. Soros struck her face with a crazily gay second that extinguished her eyes. Her body improvised its lines into a wilted sexlessness that made her black skirt and pink waist mysterious. The torture of a lost love had feasted upon her flesh and reduced it to an abstraction. Her, the circus master, presided over the feast like a chilly urbane magician. Without a trace of sensual longing, she recalled his little black mustache, standing like a curt intrigue over his lips, and the way in which it had bitten into her mouth became the unreal memento of something she had never possessed. Like all women gazing back at a departed love, she felt a swindled poverty that could not quite decide whether it had once owned wealth or not. This feeling translated itself in exclamatory vowels that could not find the consonance of her past passion. She smiled like a bedraggled masquerading tragedy. It takes women years to perfect this masquerade, but they win a distracted pleasure that guards them from haggling memories. To generalize about women is to broaden our hope that one woman may serve for the rest. Philosophers disappointed in love often do this, though the man on the street is a fairly adept mimic. Ethel Kern's bosom lightly scolded her pink waist and her poignantly devilish smile almost persuaded her that it was real. All the tragedy on her face spent itself in a distressed question. In unison with this proceeding a perturbed mon along within her addressed her vanity which was silkily perched upon an emotional balcony. Kern treated me white, blue garters with a real diamond in the center. He never smiled when he kissed me. God, why couldn't I keep him? He stayed with me a year and there's not a woman in the troop who's had him more than a month. He's a lying rat, but he never smiled when he kissed me. I wonder whether he'd smile if I slit his throat. What did I ever see in that fat face? He'll be a joke in a few years. They all throw you down unless you get in ahead of them. If I broke a bottle against his mug I'd only make him happy. It had blue silk tassels and he paid three hundred for it. I drank too much. Blue silk tassels. He's better than most of them. I knew what he wanted and I'm bawling him out because he got it. He treated me white, blue silk garters with real diamonds that would make the queen of England wink. The devilishly poignant smile and the monologue met each other within her while fleeing back to their graves and their unpremeditated clash illuminated the renunciation upon her face. She looked into her upturned yellow turban as though it held elusive dregs. Brooding experimented with her head and suddenly threw it to the ground, dissatisfied. She lay there like the impoverished effigy of a far-off love. Her black skirt revealed her slim legs, with gloomy discourtesy, and her fluffy pink waist gave its babyish sympathy to the sharpness of her back. Her slender but muscular arms, stretching over the grass, were senseless branches touching the shoulders of the armless effigy. The wind trifled with her loose brown hair and incited it to ironically flitting imitations of life. Dead thoughts and emotions united upon her hidden face and gripped it with decayed finesse. She rested, perilously unconcerned, upon the sloping edge of the cliff. Suddenly, in a silibent prank, the earth fled beneath her body, and she disappeared. They knelt around her prostrate figure hugged by the pale blue indelicacy of tights and the scant impudence of her yellow bodice. High above her a little wooden board dangled helplessly from a long wire, while another wire hung loosely above it. She opened her eyes and stared, with a lusterless disbelief at the people who were like attention ready to snap. Damn him he did me dirty! she cried to the amazed painted faces above her. End of story. This recording is in the public domain.