"Since this story is based entirely on facts, the author feels it his duty not to overstep the bounds of the verifiable, to resist at all costs the perils of invention. Even the red notebook, which until now has provided a detailed account of Quinn's experiences, is suspect."
- Paul Auster, City of Gas
* * *
by Lucas Edwards
- Table of Contents
* * *
My name is Leland Palmer. You can call me Lucas. Or "The Hacker", perhaps. The Other.
As Edward Lacie is disrespectful of Baysans whom he has kidnapped, I disregard Edward Lacie. He is the whole horse, ass and all.
After watching the "Twin Peaks" marathon with Ed, my latest favorite saying is "So-and-so is the whole horse, not just the ass." I refer to the scene in one of the last episodes, in which the villian, Windham Earl, who has kidnapped Leo Johnson, makes an appearance in a two-man horse costume with his "kidnapee" as the ass. Because Leo Johnson is a horse's ass, Greg Baysans is one too.
The Gnome notebook: the first part of it was copied by Ed into Harar: Taken to Twin Peaks. He chickened out and stopped reading, but I'll share with you the rest of the Gnome notebook:
This whole town is run by cops. The restuarants, the bars, the cheap hotels and other people. The story Wanda is a waitress saying she was born here and once lived in Minnesota; she moved back a month ago and wants to talk and something else; she knows the regulars and so does he. I once thought he was empty-headed and how he likes talking too much for anyone's good. Or good acting. Or bad. Is she trying to get information from me on how much I know? The part of Spokane not run by cops is run by Satanists.
How far am I watched? Why far? Why for?
I wanna know the answer or I wanna know a truth,
a time for anything is everything. The end.
I, myself, am a poet. I, myself, am "real pretty."¹
I have a thing for asses it could be said.
It's been said I'm an explorer.² What do you know?
I know about art history and cubism
and Symbolism and Dadaism and Futurism
and Fauvists and Surrealism and synesthesia.
I say and know all. More than an ordinary evil twin,
I am the clone of an unholy trinity.
Did I mention that Leo Johnson is a horse's ass?
Edward Lacie doesn't know that Lucas Edwards exists.
John Carr, too. Horses, not just the best beast part.
Not what you think. Think ears.³ Burning.
The howl of a werewolf is warning. Gimme a call.
Party lines? I am older than Vampire dirt.
I believe in the power of Chaos to destroy us all.
And thankfully. I am the urge to commit suicide.
The garden grows and children next door also.
The point is there is no point and has never been.
Ich heiß' Friedrich Saußer. Fried-rich, nicht Fred-é-ric!
Ich spreche nur Deutsche, kein Englisch öder Franzosiche.
Dabei kann ich mit der Rimbaud und Baysans sprechen
aber nicht mit der Lucas öder Herr Lacie.
Was werden wir tuen? Ich weiß mehr daß ich sagen kann.
There really is nothing to learn or not to learn.
"Slip through the legal cracks," the newsman says.
He doesn't know what he doesn't know either.
I am being reluctant to tell the story of demons
and sheriffs and fear in the turn of a corner.
Speaking of Lara Flyn Boyle, if lips were supposed
to look like that, wouldn't more women suck on
plugged in vacuum cleaners? Her plastic surgeon
was the man who originally designed blow-up dolls.
Edward Lacie doesn't know Luke exists, but
I know the code he invented and used to write
the demon book in which he went up and down.
I taught him code as he slept. I was under the bed.
I lie more often than I tell the truth so you decide.
I get into locked rooms just by willing myself there.
What to tell you about Greg Baysans I don't know yet.
Did I mention he's a whole horse, not just the ass?
Poet X was several asses before his well-aimed demise.
Rimbaud a walking ass, one of my favorite projects.
Hospital negligence is the next topic on the news.
I find negligence previous to that of the hospital.
Atlas may be able to shrug and survive,
but this shrugging is about to starve me to death.
"It can be nearly impossible to prove," the newswoman
reports. Documented evidence. Whistle-blowers. Hell.
An entire shift spent at the broiler with no break.
Today's bad deed was the buying of another book.
Less than a dollar! "Tremendous," the weatherman says.
"What kind of books are you looking for?" they always ask.
Like this poem itself, the first verse has no ending.
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