Le secret de l’univers Aaron Belz

Le secret de l’univers

Aaron Belz

THREE THINGS

Nothing is as funny

as a summer day,

but three things

are more temperate.

One. A glass

of tap water.

Two. Your mood

after we watch

“Friends.”

And three.

Three things

keep me from

emailing you.

I count bad

breath and

receding hairline

as one thing,

by the way.

In all the universe

there are only three things.

This is the secret

of the universe,

or as the French call it,

le secret de l'univers.

ADVICE TO CHILDREN

Children, do not talk to strangers.

If you must, make sure they at least

have candy and that it is good candy.

This is the way of the world.

If strangers have candy or money

you talk to them and try to get some

for yourself. Candy, money, glory;

if a strange man promises you fame,

you do not even need to ask his name.

If a man appears with a strange animal

on a leash, such as a capybara, pet it;

feed it; it wants to lick your hand Let it.

Remember that the capybara may seem

strange to you, but to Brazilians it is normal,

just as to his mother the strange man

is nothing out of the ordinary.

He is merely her son, and one hopes

she has done her best to raise him well,

given him all the advantages of education,

culture, a mother’s love. So when you

talk to a stranger, imagine him

a baby, feeding at his mother’s breast.

Accept whatever candy or money he has,

and trust the Lord to take care of the rest.

WORMS

Cyclists, as a rule, think bikers are cheating,

because they have engines. Pedestrians, in turn,

think cyclists are cheating; they use wheels.

People in wheelchairs think pedestrians

have a leg up, for obvious reasons,

but pedestrians think the same thing

about people in wheelchairs; they use wheels.

What makes people in wheelchairs unique

is that they also think cyclists and bikers

are cheating. Their disdain is uniform.

The wheelchairist's hypocrisy lies,

however, in his use of the automobile.

Everyone uses automobiles except worms.

Worms think they're better than everyone.

Worms think they're more authentic than everyone.

This is why people say worms are self-righteous.

To worms' credit, however, they aren't hypocritical,

except the ones that glide down the sidewalk

on hundreds of tiny legs, blithely ignoring

their wilted, sun-blackened comrades.

Those worms are called millipedes.

Those worms are really bad apples.

STORY WITH NO IMAGERY

There is a story that has no imagery to

go along with it. It is a story of a farmer

and his wife, alone in a farmhouse, deep

in an Oklahoman night—what they

do, how they busy themselves, etc.

Yet there is no pictorial imagery

associated with this story, so the would-

be publisher is not exactly interested.

She says she needs something seeable.

I don’t know, I think the story itself

is seeable. As far as I’m concerned

it’s almost smellable. Maybe I’m weird.

PIONEERS AT THE FOOT OF THE ROCKIES

“Bit of an impasse” says one—

hardy farm gentleman, six horses

pulling all his possessions.

“Maybe we head north a while,”

says another. And just as he says

it, a fierce wind descends upon

them, and their hats sail away

into the twilight. “Lost our hats,”

says one, patiently. “Believe

you may be right about heading

north a while,” he adds, scratching

his forehead and chewing a bit

of leather, patiently. “Believe

you’re right,” he says, more quietly,

scanning the horizon to the north

and just as he gets back on his horse,

another fierce wind comes down

upon the two gentlemen and blows

away their families and wagons,

so now it is just them sitting

on their horses at the foot

of the Rockies. Says the other, “I

think we’re alone now.” Says the one,

eyes smiling, “There doesn’t seem

to be anyone around.” They sing,

“I think we’re alone now! The beating

of our hearts is the only sound!!’

So they chop up their horses for

kindling and build a fire, and that’s

where they settle—and that, children,

is how the City of Denver got its start.

TIM AND THE GIANT HORSE

Part of me wants to eat the horse.

Part of me wants to pet it.

Another part of me wants to kick Tim with my knife-shoe

and then to defenestrate him.

I can't stop worrying about Tim on top of the horse.

Part of me wants to photograph it,

but another part of me wants to forget it.

I guess the problem is that I love that old horse.

Wait, "defenestrate" actually is a word,

it means "to throw someone or something out of a window."

Picture something you want to defenestrate:

Now imagine me doing that to Tim

after I've knife-kicked him.

But I sit here just pulling on my little beard

wondering, in part, where giant horses come from.

Also, maybe where I can get a book about horses.

Theoretically, let's say giant horses come from region X.

Let's say it takes Y hours to get there at Z speed.

But there's a possibility that you shouldn't be going Z speed.

Perhaps the limit is something lower.

Then again, perhaps giant horses come from nowhere.

I'm kidding, of course, but listen to this:

according to the web, certain women do come from nowhere.

Among them is a real-life queen named Jessica, who rules X

with an iron scepter. But two facts complicate the tale:

(1) The scepter is a pair of scissors. (2) Jessica is a man.

My question is, and has been from the start, who will save us

Tim and the giant horse

ANDIE MACDOWELL

Beautiful women hang out

with other beautiful women,

that much we who've hung out

in bars know all too well.

But the most beautiful women

hang out with one larger

woman and one less attractive

woman—their best friends.

The most beautiful women

look like Andie MacDowell

and do not drink very much

but instead stare meaningfully

in a direction of their own

and laugh genuinely at their

plain friends' comedy efforts.

Those of us who've tried

to hang out with or at least

engage in conversation

the most beautiful women

have discovered that they

serve as reverse-medusas

in the nightclub scene—

self-possessed, they

feign interest in us, then

change us into humans.

SMARTEST CREATURES

Birds should be quiet.

Birds should pray.

Dolphins have no idea what they're talking about.

Dolphins don't sleep.

Birds run their fingers through their hair as they talk.

Birds run into windows.

Dolphins ought to shut up.

Dolphins are smooth like bottles.

Birds underappreciate sympathy.

Birds would love to go swimming with you on Sunday.

Dolphins feel pain as they think about the past.

Dolphins go everywhere naked.

Birds assume they own the world.

Birds, in fact, are middle class.

Dolphins win you over with unexpected comments.

Dolphins strive for peace.

Birds consume whatever people give them.

Birds die dissatisfied.

PRIVACY

When every word sounds cliché,

Each turn of phrase derivative,

That's when I turn to slapstick

And boorish sexual innuendo.

Usually in a real beer garden

Tables are heavier, less easy to topple,

Glasses sit thickly amidst condensation,

And a river goes on and on nearby.

Sometimes thunder wakes

Every phosphorescent sea-animal

While its accompanying lightning

Photointegrates itself with leaves.

Christy came toward our party

Without elegance, stumbling in her boots,

A can of Carlsberg in each hand,

And I was on my cell phone.

"They wanted the hemmed garments

That lay nestled among antiques

Lifted up and glorified in the sun

And left out to bake the mold away.

"They winced at porticoes that sat

As if emancipated from roofs,

Because they glared so wholesomely

And because they were so beautiful."

Encapsulated thus, her thoughts

Became as fine night smokes

That curl together up under

Their table's striped umbrella,

And without even needing to embarrass myself

I stood up and excused myself,

Crisscrossed the gravelly center garden

As a drop, and then another drop, fell.

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