Helms and I
It is Helms, die anderen Helme, that things happen to.
I schlepp through Boca Raton–perhaps mechanically;
like a rat–then freeze to peek at the sun; rumor of Helms
arrives by mail, or I spot his title on some drifting list of
derelicts and [sic] undependables. My own appetence,
hunger, appetite (why should we call it lust?) gallops to-
wards deserts of the West, shabby ruins, trophies full of
holes, the maps of beggars, the scrapped papers of my
lost and doomed forebears who have already been de-
livered to the perverse asperity of winter’s sun. The other
Helms shares my weaknesses, but in a proud, overweening
way that alters their bitten roots, gnawed realities, torn souls
into the trappings of a pantomimist, soubrette, or barnstormer.
While I grant that Helms has written a fine sum of sturdy
pages, those pages will not redeem me, perhaps because
the sterling in them no...
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