5. "The One-Armed Man"
"Murder victims have no claim to privacy."
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by Luke Edwards
- Table of Contents
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Besides his genius, all Rimbaud had was shit, and he loved to shit.
"Do you know where shit come from?" Cendrars asks.
If Rimbaud had a permanent address in Africa, it was Hell, the smell of corpses everywhere. Carrying him out, he was dropped by those who could leave their footprints in the sand.¹
The story Dean is a long story and has to be addressed soon enough. Dean (1959-1991) was Ed's best friend since high school days. In 1979, Dean was Edward's only confidente. Dean's disappearance at the same time as the hostage-taking in Iran is part of the disorganization. (Burhan, an Iranian who worked at Comfy Kitchen, a Kurd who returned to Iran although the Kurds were then, as now, oppressed there.)
In order, then, the events leading up to the breakdown in the direction of up: Edward finished writing Bouleversement and submitted it to a poetry contest, a train trip to Seattle which included a sexual experience unmentioned until now, the decision to move away from Spokane and write an immediate (crucial word) "farewell", the intrusion of the Son of Sam investigation, F-B-Ms that wouldn't stop, an international crisis, a stage play and extreme paranoia. Mix well, do not stir gently. Pour, pour, pour.
The story Maggie was Dean's wife though Dean was primarily gay. She was physically as well as emotionally abusive, a manifestation of her self-perceived "artistic bent" and alluded-to but never confirmed physical (sexual?) abuse she may have experienced in childhood.
She did not take Dean's mind off suicide.
The story Cindy
has VD after trying five times
to seduce me. She's gonna go back
to her Husband who is in Hibbing
now, my director Marco's home town.
I am Gertrude's Husband, Allan's ghost
and Rimbaud's infamous twin!"
So! Ed did know about Rimbaud then.
My former supervisor now lives in Seattle.
I'm writing this book because I'm excited
about having newly decided to move to Seattle.
The book is supposed to be my goodbye to Spokane.
I'm trying to find ties to Seattle. I find them.
My Iranian friend lived with my former supervisor
in Seattle "last year" as I wrote then. I mention him
because I had a crush on him and he hadn't yet left
for a short vacation in Iran or so he intended.
He was about to leave, my international friend.
He taught me how to be a Hacker!
He taught me to cut off dog ears!
He worshipped Hitler, I swear, your honor.
My best friend I just left in Seattle.
I took the train back and had my own vision.
Gertrude was talking to me. Honest.
She was the first Hacker. Alice took notes.
"How to Write" is Hacker code. I mean it.
"I am the Son of Sam Poet of the Gutters," I hear a voice say.
Coop's First Rule: "When two separate events occur simultaneously pertaining to the same object of inquiry, you must pay strict attention."
Head Hacker is my favorite epithet, by the way.
Ed thought his best friend Dean, who lived in Seattle, had been kidnapped or killed or committed suicide. He was certainly, suddenly, missing. He called weeks later from San Francisco, continuing the breakdown going in the direction of up.
Edward met Scott in Portland² shortly after meeting Poet X.
By the time Dean called and relieved Ed's mind, so to speak, the world was a different place, what with hostages taken, what with Ed talking to the FBI and Sheriff and finding out nothing.
Ed's journal, the poetry, shows that five days before Halloween, he had no idea of what was about to hit him. He was lost (F-B-M) in thoughts of moving to Seattle.
But it was I, Head Hacker, who was excited about moving.
Ed was off to become a true poet, strip Paris of day-glo.
I had just finished editing my first manuscript (Edward Lacie's Bouleversement) since Dylan Thomas's prose!
Going crazy started with my theory about high-placed farts.
Prozac is for making situations like unemployment pleasant! I'm so happy. So what if I don't have a job.
Farts smell more in a shower because of the humidity.
Believe me, I was reading Ram Dass as fast as I could.
Believe me, Edward was reading Ram Dass as fast as he could.
Can a Hindu be a born-again? If not, I'll go to hell.
Can I maybe become a born-again Sikh and keep my hair?
The only problem is I don't like the cuisine.
I might make a good Satanist except that it calls for
a belief in the other big Bearded Daddy in the Sky.
Rimbaud's religion, highly praised on his deathbed
by a Catholic priest called by his sister, is enough for me.
That might make a nice lyric for Everyday School.
Something strange was sighted on the shore in Michigan in 1984.
The hacker has inserted that last line as a false clue (it was copied from the Sci-Fi program playing as this was being typed: a fake F-B-M....)
(The Head Hacker has set up a program that operates these programs and adds and removes this paragraph dependent on cycles of the moon.)
Prozac does nothing for pain.
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