The wooden ladder
I stood at the foot of a tall wooden ladder
piercing a purple cloud in the green heavens;
all around the ground was bare except for torn
pages from books, conical piles of ash, picnic
baskets, used condoms and pyramids of people’s
clothes. Two crickets were in conference on a naked
branch; a gigantic beaver romped along a dry
river-bed; while a toad took snuff from a thimble.
Red sheets of flame rose up, coming closer and yellow
with age. It frightened me. Lightning cracked the sky
and peeled the green to fall in flakes. A tidal wave
hesitated, but remained poised with lazy composure.
I trembled. Words filled the air to be swept away by
the wind that turned nasty, smelled of disinfectant
and had a walrus moustache. There were hands beckoning
from everywhere, not monotonous, but of different
shades; many were not hostile. A great visionary white
bird consumed quantities of snakes. I wanted to climb —
up and higher into the purple cloud. Voices threatened
to put the sun in a box forever. I struggled to climb
because of the multitude of sinners washed up on shore
decomposing. Lepers converged on me in a phalanx with
bells. I was crying. But my big toes were nailed to
the ground on that day that the bronze Buddha
came to life and ran away.
