1552 c/o Cami Park

Bartolomeo Eustachi’s Lost Plate

Anatomical Engraving no. 33

A SPOON-SHAPED HOLLOW WHERE THE EAR CURVES INTO THE THROAT

Detail:
A tiny toy horse, jointed by strings. When you press up on its base, it crumples in a dance. When you press up on its base, it crumples in a dance. When you press up on its base, it crumples in a dance. Name this part for me.

1535 c/o Cami Park

Last Meals of the Saints

St. Frank sops gravy, forks greens along with beans and rice, crisps chicken skin between his teeth, dribbles the grease down his chin, and there is nothing, now, between him and this meal, and nothing, anymore, between now and those same meals long ago before anything happened, before anyone did anything, and when he is finished he is full and warm and he thinks nothing is going to happen now and no one is going to do anything and this is what it feels like to be safe, unsinful, and in the favor of the Lord.

St. Dobie has no hard feelings against anybody. Twelve candy bars, one for each disciple of Jesus. And ice cream, because the Mother Mary is cold, but good, and they told St. Dobie he could have what he wanted and this is what he wants. Mother Mary and the Apostles. Candy bars and ice cream, God bless, God bless y’all.

St. Earl has heard stories.

St. Angelo is allowed to keep his seedless grapes after passing over his tray clean of breadstick, salad, coffee. He is popping them into his mouth when St. Frank is walked by, helmeted escort surrounding him like bowling pins. St. Angelo bites down, shakes his head. Damn, these grapes are good.

1532 c/o Cami Park

Niccolò Machiavelli Answers Questions
Online Literary Magazines Ask Other Authors

Q: Was this your idea, or did somebody ask you to do it?

A: The Marquess of Mantua, the Duke of Ferrara, the Bentivoglio, my lady of Forli, the Lords of Faenza, of Pesaro, of Rimini, of Camerino, of Piombino, the Lucchesi, the Pisans, the Sienese — everybody made advances.

Q: The characters in your books often do horrible things to each other. Do you have a dark view of human nature?

A: They are bad.

Q: Do you think the world desperately needs poetry?

A: So much the more is this experiment dangerous.

Q: This is a personal question. Are you a fan of filmmaker David Cronenberg?

A: It cannot be called talent to slay fellow-citizens, to deceive friends, to be without faith, without mercy, without religion.

Q: Ah, the search for magic in the world. And where does one find it?

A: On the piazza at Cesena with the block and a bloody knife at his side.

Q: Do you feel as if people tag you too often as 'the guy who writes about sex?'

A: As this point is worthy of notice, and to be imitated by others, I am not willing to leave it out.

Q: If you had magical powers, how would you change the world of publishing and editing?

A: More vitality, greater hatred, and more desire for vengeance.

Q: What animal would you be in a storybook?

A: The fox and the lion.

Q: When you and I leave this world, what remains?

A: The infelicity of these arms.

Q: What do you have on your desk?

A: Money, apparel, and horses.

Q: If you were on the beach right now, what would you be reading?

A: The life of Cyrus, written by Xenophon.

Q: Do you think it might have been a different book if you hadn't put your underwear on?

A: One always finds malcontents and such as desire a change.

**all answers excerpted from Machiavelli’s The Prince, published in 1532, five years after his death.

1516 c/o Cami Park

Obliteration of the Reinheitsgebot

We hereby proclaim and decree, by Authority of our Province, that henceforth in the Duchy of Bavaria, in the country as well as in the cities and marketplaces, the following rules apply to the sale of beer:

"From Michaelmas to Georgi, the price for one Mass [Bavarian Liter 1,069] or one Kopf [bowl-shaped container for fluids, not quite one Mass], is not to exceed one Pfennig Munich value, and

"From Georgi to Michaelmas, the Mass shall not be sold for more than two Pfennig of the same value, the Kopf not more than three Heller [Heller usually one-half Pfennig].

"If this not be adhered to, the punishment stated below shall be administered.

"Should any person brew, or otherwise have, other beer than March beer, it is not to be sold any higher than one Pfennig per Mass.

"Furthermore, we wish to emphasize that in future in all cities, markets and in the country, the only ingredients used for the brewing of beer must be Barley, Hops and Water. Whosoever knowingly disregards or transgresses upon this ordinance, shall be punished by the Court authorities' confiscating such barrels of beer, without fail.

"Should, however, an innkeeper in the country, city or markets buy two or three pails of beer (containing 60 Mass) and sell it again to the common peasantry, he alone shall be permitted to charge one Heller more for the Mass of the Kopf, than mentioned above. Furthermore, should there arise a scarcity and subsequent price increase of the barley (also considering that the times of harvest differ, due to location), WE, the Bavarian Duchy, shall have the right to order curtailments for the good of all concerned.

1505 c/o Cami Park

Beautiful Plague

Jacob Obrecht, you are beautiful. Everything inside your head and everything you've ever made is beautiful and singing. You came to Ferrara because you are beautiful, but then there is a plague, and besides being beautiful, you are a priest, and everything inside your heart is beautiful, too, and so you stay and you help.

First there was a dot, a tiny red dot, it sang, Kyrie, oh, Lord, and when it turned black, eleison, have mercy. It was beautiful O Lord have mercy Christ have mercy Lord have mercy

Then came the swellings, in the armpit, tender, a praise song— we bless you we adore you hear our prayers in the glory of God the father amen

And more, the coldness of all things visible and invisible the hot eyes, the extravagant thrumming Pilate he suffered and was buried the releasing of one substance with the Father by Whom all things were made the exquisite, searing gut God of God Light of Light spake by the Prophets the Father before all worlds begotten not made

Finally, like velvet, Hosanna skin Holy already in mourning, blessed is he who comes black in excelsis


Jacob Obrecht, you are beautiful.
Kyrie eleison.
First there was a dot, a tiny red dot, it sang oh, Lord, and when it turned black, have mercy.

Everything inside your head and everything you've ever made is beautiful and singing.
O, Lord have mercy; Christ have mercy; Lord have mercy.
It was beautiful.

You came to Ferrara because you are beautiful, but then there is a plague, and besides being beautiful, you are a priest, and everything inside your heart is beautiful, too, and so you stay and you help.
We bless you, we adore you hear our prayers, in the glory of God the father, amen.
Then came the swellings, in the armpit, tender, a praise song.

Of all things visible and invisible, Pilate, he suffered and was buried of one substance with the Father by Whom all things were made.
And more, the coldness, the hot eyes, the extravagant thrumming, the releasing, the exquisite, searing gut.

God of God, Light of Light, spake by the Prophets, the Father before all worlds, begotten, not made, hosanna holy.
Finally, like velvet, skin already in mourning, black.

Blessed is he who comes, in excelsis.

1493 c/o Cami Park

Queen Isabella Eats a Pineapple and Misses the Jews

It was Christopher who got her thinking about the Jews again. He had left the same day they did, and in a way she had connected them in her mind, as if they were together somehow. She read his letters half-wondering if he would mention them, wanting to know if the Jews were devastated without her, or if they had moved on quickly. Were they sullen? Did they talk about her? What did they say? Were there other monarchs already? Did they seem happy, or were they sometimes wistful for no apparent reason?

Now Christopher was back again, without them, a year later, with gold and Indians and this odd fruit that confronts her now at her breakfast on the terrace facing the sea. It is funny-looking—bottom-heavy, spiny, rough to the touch, with a bushy, pompous crown. Yet split on the platter before her, the exposed flesh of the pineapple seems as the sun itself, and the sweetness of it is almost enough to cause Isabella to cast off her jewels and renounce Christ and everything and wander the earth. Just to do it.

She had only just started to get over them, the Jews, with their stubborn, endearing habits, the way they'd circumcise their young and refuse to lift a finger on Saturdays, and could never ever say the name of God out loud. Infuriating. Adorable.

She used to like to tease the Jews, on their lazy afternoons together. She would playfully circle the edge of their ear with her little finger and whisper—yah weh yah weh—it was a delight to her, their change in color, the turning away, the way she could feel them wanting to say something, not daring. How shamelessly she used them.

It wasn't that she wanted to change the Jews. She loved the Jews, and only wanted to improve them. She knew if she worked on them enough—restricted their living quarters, had them wear badges to identify themselves—she could eventually get them to change their eating habits, and little by little they would accept Jesus and stop lighting so many candles. It was a matter of perseverance. A labor of love. She would have kept the Jews around forever if it wasn't for Torquemada's jealousy. Silly Torquemada. Everyone knew he was gay, anyway.

She ended it when she found out the Jews had been keeping track of her cycle to try and get her pregnant. Torquemada brought her the evidence. The charts, the graphs. The notes on her cravings for cacao. She had been spending more time with the Jews than she realized. Madness. As if a baby could solve all their problems, make her give up tempting the Jews with bacon, or allow them into universities.

Of course, it was unforgivable. Isabella was a queen, and would not be fooled. She went to Ferdinand and questioned him on his close associations with the Jews. She accused him of loving the Jews more than he loved her. The ultimatum was issued—it was the Jews, or his queen. Isabella cried. The Jews had to go.

And now here she is, a year later, Jewless on the terrace, faced with this ridiculous looking, impossible-tasting fruit, and the sea beyond. The fragrance of the pineapple is heady, and Isabella catches herself entertaining such outlandish thoughts as would the Jews take her back after everything that's happened. She is relieved when Ferdinand comes onto the terrace, in full regalia, ready to start a day posturing over the spoils of the New World.

Isabella commands Ferdinand to taste, and he bends down to the chunk of pineapple in the linen napkin in her hand. But the scent of the fruit on her breath is too much for him, and he pushes his lips against hers, causing her to lurch back and smash pineapple into his chin.

"All for the glory of Spain, my Queen, all for the glory of Spain," Ferdinand says as he wipes his face with the napkin. Isabella blinks.

There is silence between them. Ferdinand fidgets and paces behind Isabella; Isabella is still, looking at her hands.

"My King," the queen says, finally, "there's something I've often wondered. About the Jews."

Ferdinand stops moving altogether. "The Jews? What about them? I thought we were done with them."

"Why can't they—why don't they—didn't they—ever say the name of God out loud?"

"Oh." Ferdinand looks down, kicks at a stone on the terrace. "Grandfather said it was 'ineffable.'"

"Ineffable?"

"Yes. Ineffable."

"Oh."

Queen Isabella reaches across the table and spears a chunk of pineapple with her fork. Ferdinand gazes to the sea, tugs his codpiece.

1488 c/o Cami Park

The Night of the Day the Khoi-Khoi Meet
Bartolomeu Dias and Crew

It keeps coming back to the end of the world. Dogs sitting on roofs, birds flying about indoors, clattering locusts.


The sheep's paunch is torn down the middle, spilling dung, and tossed on the fire to roast. Bartered wine is passed mouth to mouth around the circle around the fire. The chief tells this story--


Tsui-Goab, creator of rocks and stones, bringer of rain and storm, magician, warrior, the first of us all, having killed evil once and for all after many battles and deaths and resurrections, sent a hare from his home in the clouds to give People-People this message: "As I die and dying am born again, so you shall die and dying live again." But the hare was stupid, and delivered the message thusly: "As I die and dying am born again, so you shall die and dying not be born again." When the hare repeated to Tsui-Goab the message it had delivered, Tsui-Goab hit the hare on the nose, cleaving its lip. Such is the hare.


They had come, hands free of ash, already soaking wet, sallow. Thin fabrics clung to their chests like petals. As the flowers of our daughters taken by angry rain was our doom.


She strums the instrument received for cattle. Her name is the sound of trapped birds; the slap on the cow's rump the slur of eyes on her, she can't form these with her tongue and palate; she looks to the moon and tries with her fingers.


We bend to our natures as trees to the wind.