The Book of Ephraim (I)

I’d rather skip this part, but courage–– What we dream up must be lived down, I think. I went to my ex-shrink With the whole story, right through the miscarriage Of plans for Joselito. He Got born to a WEST VIRGINIA IN STATE ASYLUM ––D too late Recalls “Gin’s” real name: Jennifer Marie. (The following week, I’ll scarcely dare Ask after Betsy. But her child, it seems, OUTDOES THE WILDEST DREAMS OF PATRONS Whew. And later, when through fair Silk bangs, at six months, Wendell peers Up at me, what are such serene blue eyes For, but to recognize––? However.) We have MEDDLED And the POWERS ARE FURIOUS Hans, in Dutch and grim, May send no further word. Ephraim they’ve brought Before a kind of court And thrown the book (the Good Book? YES) at him. We now scare him with flippancies. DO U WANT TO LOSE ME WELL U COULD AGENTS CAN BREAK OUR CODE TO SMITHEREENS How Kafka! PLEASE O PLEASE Whereupon the cup went dead, And since then––no response, hard as we’ve tried, “And so I just thought I’d . . .” Winding up lamely. “Quite,” the doctor said, Exuding insight. “There’s a phrase You may have heard––what you and David do We call folie à deux. Harmless; but can you find no simpler ways To sound each other’s depths of spirit Than taking literally that epigram Of Wilde’s I’m getting damn Tired of hearing my best patients parrot?” “Given a mask, you mean, we’ll tell––?” Tom nodded. “So the truth was what we heard?” “A truth,” he shrugged. “It’s hard To speak of the truth. Now suppose you spell It out. What underlies these odd Inseminations by psycho-roulette?” I stared, then saw the light: “Somewhere a Father Figure shakes his rod At sons who have not sired a child? Through our own spirit we can both proclaim And shuffle off the blame For how we live––that good enough?” Tom smiled And rose. “I’ve heard worse. Those thyroid Pills––you still use them? Don’t. And keep in touch.” I walked out into much Guilt-obliterating sunlight. FREUD We learned that evening DESPAIRS OF HIS DISCIPLES & SAYS BITTE NIE ZU AUFGEBEN THE KEY TO YR OWN NATURES We felt clouds disperse On all sides. Our beloved friend Was back with us! We’d think some other time About the hour with Tom ––Nonchalance that would gradually extend Over a widening area. The question Of who or what we took Ephraim to be, And of what truths (if any) we considered Him spokesman, had arisen from the start. If he blacked out reason (or vice versa) On first sight, we instinctively avoided Facing the eclipse with naked eye. Early attempts to check what he let fall Failed, E's grasp of dates and places being Feeble as ours, his Latin like my own Vestigial; even D knew better German. As through smoked glass, we charily observed Either that his memory was spotty (Whose wouldn’t be, after two thousand years?) Or that his lights and darks were a projection Of what already burned, at some obscure Level or another, in our skulls. We, all we knew, dreamed, felt and had forgotten Flesh made word, became through him a set of Quasi-grammatical constructions which Could utter some things clearly, forcibly, Others not. Like Tosca hadn’t we Lived for art and love? We were not tough- Or literal-minded, or unduly patient With those who were. Hadn’t––from books, from living–– The profusion dawned on us, of “languages” Any one of which, to who could read it, Lit up the system it conceived?––bird-flight, Hallucinogen, chorale and horoscope: Each its own world, hypnotic, many-sided Facet of the universal gem Ephraim’s revelations––we had them For comfort, thrills and chills, “material.” He didn’t cavil. He was the revelation (Or if we had created him, then we were). The point––one twinkling point by now of thousands–– Was never to forego, in favor of Plain dull proof, the marvelous nightly pudding’s.