w i n t e r
the malory man
I
See Bill Malory a comin'down the road. His dog not far behind. A ragged black and white skinny thing a swayin'side to side. Bill's cane a tap, tap, tappin'. His white skin lookin dry even though the suns as hot as it can feel. His field's not planted while the others gone to seed. Malory's a hopeless man. Son, don't go near that Malory man. Leave him be. There's enough hate in this world further down the road for you to see.
II
In his youth Bill looked to the sky and said that he would join it's clouds. Connect the puffs of white, the bridges like a woman's back, the small and the large alike. Bill was kind but his fun never lasted longer than the fear he held inside. Malory needed a sorry glance, Malory claimed his and his alone.
III
An albino he is. Son that's Malory's way. No color to that heart. His plane as white as he, dustin'the crops and flyin'away. Don't go near that Malory man. Son, stay clear and far away. He grabs at parties and yells, "How much can you throw over the walls!"* Son, as far as I can see, he's a hurtin'man, that Malory be. He hits his wife and curse his son, and whip his dog and care for none. Bill Malory need be left alone.
IV
He used to smile that Malory man. The townsfolk saw the golden tooth and broke his grin with backward smiles and the rubbin'of chins. Down here noone wants that Malory man his life is sin, his claim tiresome his words make no sense. So son, avoid Bill Malory anyway you can. When hearin'the cane a tappin'turn the other way. Hold your head or climb a tree or go inside, but don't talk to the Malory man.
V
Nightfall brings a silence around except in the house of the Malory man. You can hear him down the street a screamin', dreamin'his dreams out loud. They come in the shape of an angry fist poundin'the flesh of sweet Mary. Son, there's a burden in that man, it's somethin'he can't carry for long. And when it's rainin'like a storm will do, the Malory man, he'll look for you. The thunder don't much hold him back and the rain just keeps him grounded. The crops are watered and washed away and Malory keeps on poundin'. Malory can't right stand when it rains his body full of liquor, water falls off the wings of his plane and he sobs sometimes in whispers. His hair a matted white, his face just eyes of pink that look off in the misted warm but rarely seem to think. Son, if I was in your shoes and walked like I did a long time ago, I'd take the long way 'round the block where Malory don't go. Broken bottles and rusty cans can learn you more than the Malory man.
VI
Now son, I'll tell you when I was young things used to catch my eye. The corners were always brighter then, always lighter, always dry. That's when Mary walked 'round free and before Bill Malory came. Before the plane and the hanger of gray, before I learned to cry. Still things have a way of changin'and your not quite sure which road you walk sometimes. A servant or a slave or a master of the plow. It was all too much when I was young, the asking why, the how. Bill Malory's always 'round the corner, never leavin'you alone, a tradin'with the shadows, a swapin'with your own.
VII
The Malory man bought me a drink once. I'd spent a day in the field, the dry leaves left a coarse place to my hands as is normal you'll soon know. The dirt on my clothes stirred up by the Malory man and his plane. There wasn't no place in the field I could go to get away from the blade, the man made wind. It was in a bar that night I ran into Bill Malory. He sat himself at my table of broken chairs and whittled wood, he smelled of pesticide. He sat and talked of Mary, not knowin'what I held inside, not knowin'the dreams I dreamt, and not really caring I suppose. We drank the drink and forgot for a while the rules of life, the turnin'and the talk of how things go. And I guess that's as close as I got to the spark of the Malory man. What makes you work son is as deep as any river and as far across as any field, and me with my two feet on the ground, the Malory man's cane a tappin'and me a thinkin', I knew there wasn't no understandin'the way. So when Malory dropped the two crumpled ones, I was glad, having nothin'more to say. I knew Bill Malory's motives, or at least that he wanted Mary. I knew he could take her away, and would, with anything else he could carry. The Malory man is smart. But, son, he's got things inside he don't understand. He don't realize his spark, the tappin'rhythm of his cane. He don't listen to the bark of his dog or the motion in the rain. I sometimes think behind the smile and sweat that smells of gin, that the Malory man would talk if he just knew where to begin. But that night, like some many other times he just immersed his sin.
VIII
This porch may not look like much, but son, it holds the weight of a man. And soon you'll learn to love it's broken mis-repair, the warpin'of the rain, and nights like this, anyway you can. The field's will take there toll, Malory always overhead, the trouble and the worth, the livin'and the dead. Your comin'to that age, you'll soon be on you own, so I'm tellin'you no son of mine will face Malory alone.
IX
Sun and clouds and rain with thunder, it all makes me remember better times. But son, the man that lives in the past is as dead as last years crop. Malory's times a comin'with the seasons. His top ended smile, a glance at life from the outside, a drink on the roof too full of reasons. Reasons he don't quite understand or can't make sense of. Son, Malory's disposition lasts like a child with his arms full of toys. He's almost broke this Malory man. Hasn't yet learned the sharin'game. His pink eyes still think that when all is grown and picked and cut and dried, he'll be the only one left to remain. Still, son, he falls like a rotten tree full of bugs. His wood limp instead of strong, his life at a turn. And in the afternoon, Mary sweeps it all underneath a troubled rug. She knows, behind cold gray eyes. She knows the Malory man's tricks, his hesitation, his lies. She ain't happy the Mary I loved. But the Malory man touched me son, held me tight with his plastic glove and sight and action. Took Mary from me when I was young and he was new. We got along like dry soil and roots. Rocks to the plow, me to the few. And Bill Malory will be no better to you.
X
I guess I've got no more left to say. The Malory man will have his way. His cane will keep a tappin'and his dog will still a follow, and Mary will still curl up at night with a man half by her side. But I can sometimes think clear, and sometimes in color, of a fire-proof field where the Malory man ain't needed. Where there ain't no need to hide. Where every leaf is green, all the fields are weeded, and no plane ever flies. My hair is combed and the ground is moist. My clothes are just the right amount of clean. Mary is home with the last bit of sun. She is waiting for me. She is waiting for me, my son. For me and for me alone. And in my thoughts, no Malory man can ever steal my home.
goodnight 9.28.98
*nick cave---"king's ink"