Preview of Unsaid Six: Whatever Happened to Vivien Leigh? by Will Clingan

It’s a great day to be an Indian.

I was dressed in cowboy boots.

“Bueno,” you said.

It was not good enough for me.

I know gay and straight men. They each prefer certain things as opposed to the opposite, a duality better understood when looking at desire and effect in the notions of what one perceives as pleasure.

Atop the mountain above the valley stands a statue of Christ.

I hear the wolves.
They howl.

Plurals.
Nouns.

Ignition.
Gravity.
Pulse.
Beat.
Rhythm.
Blood.
Physics.
Psyche.

Nonsense.

Bruised fruit.

Molding vegetables.

Rotted meat.

Something fallen.

Lichen and moss.

What denizens falter here?

Her genitalia are like fruit to be fleshed away.
The tireless cunt.
The door and lock.

A home in the country where there is no one around.
A tussel.
An anchor.

Why do you put yourself up in Moscow like you do?
Visit me in Stalingrad.
We shall go to St. Petersburg.
Mexico City.
Mississippi.
America.

I do get lonesome.
A day with no death would be a day indeed.

How did anybody get here?
I heard your name.
They covered their eyes and turned their backs to the sun.
They will miss us in Heaven.
I find so many things.
Remember the mountains and the lakes?
There is no key.

The garden.
The garden.
The garden.

Karachi and the minarets.                                                                                                             We have built and gone through great measures to occupy ourselves.

Fish and chips.
Curry.

I locked my keys in your house.
Have you seven and seven alone?
Have you fossils?

Have you heard the muted chorus?
  
                                                                                     Have you heard the morning bird?
                                                                                             Do people get tilled and filled with the evening’s liquor?                                                     Pull hay and work the straw each day.

What is there to tell you about anything?

I traveled to Slovenia.
Maui.
The Gulf of Oman.
Nepal.
Brunei.
I went to Persepolis.
Pangong Lake.
Shrocken.

There was a great misunderstanding and misdirection about all of that.
I received your letter from Madagascar in the mail today.
What has become of our garden?

I visited your lonesome, empty home in the Himalayas.
I became unwound in Pathankot.

Whatever happened to Vivien Leigh?

In Atania they awaited us.
What grave has been filled today?
They found the cloth in Morocco.
I heard a passerby say, “Call to the East.”

A great symphony plays somewhere.
Sedate me in your colored fun.

Sentences all became a part of a whole even though they were isolated from one another.

Is this enough?

Was that too much?

Jesus and Mary.

And, Kimberly, I told you I would come visit you soon.

Poor Apollo.

Jubilation.

By the riverside we stepped over the mud on wooden planks.

Houdini.
Lazarus.
Awaking from the dead.
In the midnight squalor some hoot and holler.

It’s a great day to be an Indian!

She finds pearls in the surf.
He finds a headless bird.
They found the body near the trees.
Tell me of that great night.
What happened to your beautiful hair?

We go and go and go.

I went to Spain.

I think I heard it in a hymn, from somewhere far off.

How did you find me here?

La dolce morte.

No, this is something of difference.

I went to Amsterdam.
I went to Venice and found you there with another.
I went to London.
I went to Iran and found no one I knew.
I went to Baghdad.

There are parasols in the green meadows carried by women so lovely that no consolation is needed.

Winter brings us the early moon.

So many things.

I no longer hear the birds.

There is always one last thing to say and there is always more to be had and there is always death and there is always birth.

“Bueno,” you said.

Never was it good enough for me.

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One Response to Preview of Unsaid Six: Whatever Happened to Vivien Leigh? by Will Clingan

  1. What ever happened to Fay Ray?

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