The Nameless Man

Volume One: I - XIII

I.

He has no name. He lives in the pocket of the woods.

He walks to town. He paints the sidewalk crimson. He paints to the edge, where the Pet Shop sells infuriated parakeets. He talks with Madeline. Beautiful. Independent. Russian. She asks his name.

"You keep coming. How shall I refer to you?"

"I'm here. That should be enough."

She fills the cage with woodchips for the gerbils. She wears a white blouse.

"But I like you," she says, "I need to know whom I'm dealing with."

He takes a bird. He pays a kiss. He leaves.

II.

The candle is lit in the cave. Bats congregate on the ceiling. They are living chandeliers. He disregards the wings. It's cheap. He eats brown-sugar-oatmeal. He thinks of Madeline. Her red hair. Her see-through blouse. Her thin hands that fit. There is a flicker. Felix walks with a flashlight. His hand is red. He's slipped on the rocks and is authority.

"You can't stay out here," Felix says. "The winter is coming." Felix shuffles his eyes to his feet, the same conversation every night.

"You'll freeze to death."

The wings shift. The air circulates the smell of water, green crystal.

"Goodnight then," Felix says, "I'll bring you firewood. You're running low."

III.

The city is small enough to be lost. He has a few routine destinations. The occupation. The harbor. Help Sed with boats. Sand. Reseal. Reshape. The Pet Shop. Madeline. A kiss. The blouse.

The dark part of morning, the sky parts. The globe turns inside out with blue skin shattered across an infinite canvas. The pulse of light folds onto itself. The mirror looks into its own eye. The iron dividing line between halves. Bits that float from ashes of time. A sleepless spell. The pursuit of the endless end.

"a'Good morning to you Son," Sed says. He hands the coffee. He inhales the salt that floats.

"You done a good job on that rig, eh?"

"It was long work"

"Damn worth it. We'll be in business again."

"Yes. We'll sail with reels. With tackle."

***

He hammers. The swell eases his rhythm. The glue dries. He smoothes the surface. He runs his palms along the edge. Like glass, he checks the feel. He finishes his work.

IV.

Night. He walks in the woods through flowers. Home is close. Firewood. A note from Felix. "Cheers."

The fire is lit. He can see his desk. His books. Old. Red-volumes. Scattered in the shadows.

The hammer echoes in the forest. He builds a chair, a gift. He hammers. He is skilled. He is powerful. His hands are paper, moist. Saturated with movement. The night eases his rhythm.

His cadence structures the moon. The luminous beams fall into rhythm. He uncovers his object. He invents the plan. The wind calls. Owls flap wings outside. Bats watch his arm arch, intent. Up down. Down Up. The nail finds the symmetry of force. He does what he can. Done. The chair reflects the fire. A gift for Madeline.

He deals with existence.

V.

The Market Square. Fruit for sale. Peaches. Apples. Cantaloupe. Watermelon. He buys a peach in the morning.