The Ear Doctors Understand Nothing
Eldon (Craig) Reishus
Mark, a poet, can’t tune out the Big Bang that started the universe, unlike most of us with our working filters. He turned this to his advantage by moving to the Maine Bumblebee cannery in Prospect Harbor and living in its loudest part. No FEDs would dare come look for him there, no mother, no father—not even with the furriest, most thickly packed, pink earplugs. No more worries about judge-approved, court-ordered tappings! There, in the Bumblebee Sardines loudness, Mark can decompose in peace.
In magic marker on Mark’s walls: words so tightly centrifuged they form a uniform helix. Each flash his verse emits is tempered to detect the slightest wobble in the path of our transvestite, neighbor planet, Mars:
An argument that can no longer be
keeps spilling out between us,
and the crazy form it contemplates possession of
is signing things
Venus, as stoically beautiful as she is stone deaf, is the only outside person who can get through to Mark. In the blue of her breasts pounds the formula that traces back to Eve’s unlikely origins. Above the wild, sardine racket, Mark understands her howls to mean that repeatedly in real life she believes she can hear. At first it sounds like someone’s grumbling stomach studying grammar drawing magnetically closer and then she closes her eyes and is transported into a room with pictureless white cinderblock walls and a cigarette butt floating in the toilet where the sound of the troubled stomach turns from studying grammar to contemplating vocabulary.
Venus concludes by hollering: »LES DOCTEURS D’OREILLE NE COMPRENNENT RIEN!«
Mark holds a finger to his lips, then moves them Big Bang, read-me style: IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE MISUNDERSTANDING OF THE WORD.
Prospect Harbor is of course not the end of the world, but: »Ullhodturdenweirmudgaardgringnirurdrmolnirfenrirlukkilokkibaugimandodrrerinsurtkrinmgernrackinarockar« –like the old pun thunders, you can hear it from there.
Bumblebee closed the Prospect Harbor sardine cannery in 2010. To counter the chill of northern Maine, July/August Friday after-dusk first hours, on the vacant factory’s flaked, Atlantic-side facade, Mark and Venus show Cocteau’s film, Orphée.
Sundown dismissing the sound of buoy bells behaving like bell boys anxious for tips. Rowboats, dinghies, and sailboats tie up to the colorful moorings dotting the harbor. Seagulls scream for junkfood, hold the patties, extra bun! A bright blue star glows in heaven’s ear. Concordia nursing at her breast, Venus flicks the projector to on and the ninety tethered speakers spark in tinny, blue-tooth unison. Mark leads the flickering, black and white countdown: »Trois, deux, un…«
The Prospect Harbor Orphée Theater Boat Drive-In; a cool place to begin a midsummer romance.
Eldon (Craig) Reishus lives under the Alps outside Munich (Landkreis Bad Tölz – Wolfratshausen). This year he has work published or forthcoming in Embodied Effigies, Word Riot, The Black Heart Magazine, Whitewash Dreams Magazine, Subtopian, B O D Y (two pieces), Knee-Jerk, Misfits’ Miscellany (three pieces), and The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts. He is a ghostwriter for hire (‘Have laptop, will travel’), anti-nuclear activist, all-around print and web media pro, and the translator of a broad score of films and books. He originates from Fort Smith, Arkansas. Visit him: www.reishus.de.