Paper Mask
is a collection of fifty-seven prose poems fresh from the imagination
of American author Thomas Wiloch. This little books also contains two
dozen of Wiloch's montages. What a treasure. Unfortunately, Paper Mask
is long out-of-print and currently unavailable. However, I can share a
rich taste of Thomas Wiloch magic by including the below prose poems.
Enjoy!
PAPER MASK
I am here in the secret chamber where you
hid your self. I am that whisper in the dark that no one hears but you. I
am the eternal word that lies dormant until it is seen and then, with
sudden, sparkling life, consumes your attention.
Do not be afraid. I
cannot harm you. You can only squander a moment of cheap time on my
secondhand thoughts. So relax. Let me be here. We will share a drink
from an invisible cup. We will hide behind this paper mask with our
shadow faces.
THE POET
There is an ocean of black water under
a dome of black sky. The poet sails these waters in a wooden boat,
letting the currents guide him. As he drifts along, he records his
observations in a stilted hand. His journey has lasted for many years.
He has traversed this dark sea many times.
One day he fills the last
page of his writing tablet. There is no more for him to write. He puts
down his quill and the currents pull his boat toward shore.
On the
beach the townspeople gather to see the approaching stranger. At first
they do not recognize him but, yes, now they remember. He is a local boy
who left years ago and has now returned to them. They light a lantern
to guide him home.
But the sudden light blinds the poet, whose eyes
are weak from his long journey in darkness. He raises his hand to cover
his face.
"Look," those on shore whisper, "he is waving to us."
PAPER THIN
Atoms
have holes; they hold space. What seems to be solid is hardly there at
all. But it dances so quickly you see it, touch it. It's a trick of the
eye, which moves at a slower velocity.
What magic we are. What bold
illusion, deceiving ourselves. A hand touches a wall - what boundaries!
What barrier holds back the still space? (I speak slowly, so you can
hear me.)
It is paper thin. The world is torn.
WE GO TO WAR
We
go to war in little wagons filled with crystalline flowers. We go
riding ostriches, in chariots pulled by giraffes. We go waddling on
webbed feet or slithering on scaled bellies. We march behind banners
emblazoned with proud tigers. We sail in ships assembled from twigs.
It is a fairy tale war of paper swords and puppets.
No one will die.
THE TRUMPET
He
examines the trumpet with a magnifying glass. There is a place the
music comes from, he reasons. You have to blow on it, she tells him. No,
he says. You'll scare the music away. It'll run out this end and I'll
never find it.
SILLY MEAT
He used a screwdriver to undo the
top of his head. Lifting up on the skull, he opened it on its hinge and
examined the exposed brain in the mirror. He used a shiny chrome scalpel
to cut the grey tissue into delicate slices, removing these slices a
piece at a time and laying them aside. When he had cut out all of his
brain, he looked at the slices with a magnifying glass. But they were
only made of bloody flesh, not much different from other sliced meat he
had seen. Where was that secret electricity he had heard about? What
spurred this silly meat to dream?
FRAGILE ANIMALS
We are
fragile animals, you and I. If not for simple air, we could not speak.
Remove the light and we are blind. A glancing blow to the temple and we
are dead.
What delicate machinery! Secondhand appliances are more durable.
We are shadows, clouds. We are dust in the air, dancing to the slightest breeze.
Whenever you sign your name, erase it.
THE NAME EXERCISE
Practice
pronouncing your name in a low, calm voice. Say it again and again,
allowing the syllables to be carefully formed by the lips and tongue.
Enjoy the feeling.
Your name will, in time, become a meaningless
incantation of random sounds. The words will be mere pulling and flexing
of facial muscles.
This is magic: A familiar sequence of tone and pitch blossoms into awesome enigma.
NO REAL WORLD
There is no real world.
There are only these words speaking in your head and you listening to them, divining their secret and magical meaning.
This
is clear: these words are not mine. They may, perhaps, be something I
captured and passed along. But they are not mine, any more than the air I
inhale and breathe out again belongs to me.
And me? I'm miles away now. I might be asleep or washing the car or even dead. I don't know. (Hello to you, anyway).
There is only this page, these letters, the words speaking in your head. You are all alone.
There is no real world.
Tomas Wiloch, 1953-2008
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