Paranoid: A Chant Read online

  Paranoid: A Chant

  by Stephen King

  I can't go out no more.

  There's a man by the door

  in a raincoat

  smoking a cigarette.

  But

  I've put him in my diary

  and the mailers are all lined up

  on the bed, bloody in the glow

  of the bar sign next door.

  He knows that if I die

  (or even drop out of sight)

  the diary goes and everyone knows

  the CIA's in Virginia.

  500 mailers bought from

  500 drug counters each one different

  and 500 notebooks

  with 500 pages in every one.

  I am prepared.

  * * *

  I can see him from up here.

  His cigarette winks from just

  above his trenchcoat collar

  and somewhere there's a man on a subway

  sitting under a Black Velvet ad thinking my name.

  Men have discussed me in back rooms.

  If the phone rings there's only dead breath.

  In the bar across the street a snubnose

  revolver has changed hands in the men's room.

  Each bullet has my name on it.

  My name is written in back files

  and looked up in newspaper morgues.

  My mother's been investigated;

  thank God she's dead.

  They have writing samples

  and examine the back loops of pees

  and the crosses of tees.

  My brother's with them, did I tell you?

  His wife is Russian and he

  keeps asking me to fill out forms.

  I have it in my diary.

  Listen—

  Listen

  do listen:

  you must listen

  In the rain, at the bus stop,

  black crows with black umbrellas

  pretend to look at their watches, but

  it's not raining. Their eyes are silver dollars.

  Some are scholars in the pay of the FBI

  most are the foreigners who pour through

  our streets. I fooled them

  got off the bus at 25th and Lex

  where a cabby watched me over his newspaper.

  In the room above me an old woman

  has put an electric suction cup on her floor.

  It sends out rays through my light fixture

  and now I write in the dark

  by the bar sign's glow.

  I tell you I know.

  They sent me a dog with brown spots

  and a radio cobweb in its nose.

  I drowned it in the sink and wrote it up

  in folder gamma.

  I don't look in the mailbox anymore.

  The greeting cards are letter-bombs.

  (Step away! Goddam you!

  Step away, I know tall people!

  I tell you I know very tall people!)

  The luncheonette is laid with talking floors

  and the waitress says it was salt but I know arsenic

  when it's put before me. And the yellow taste of mustard

  to mask the bitter odor of almonds.

  I have seen strange lights in the sky.

  Last night a dark man with no face crawled through nine miles

  of sewer to surface in my toilet, listening

  for phone calls through the cheap wood with

  chrome ears.

  I tell you, man, I hear.

  I saw his muddy handprints

  on the porcelain.

  1 don't answer the phone now,

  have I told you that?

  They are planning to flood the earth with sludge.

  They are planning break-ins.

  They have got physicians

  advocating weird sex positions.

  They are making addictive laxatives

  and suppositories that burn.

  They know how to put out the sun

  with blowguns.

  I pack myself in ice—have I told you that?

  It obviates their infrascopes.

  I know chants and I wear charms.

  You may think you have me but I could destroy you

  any second now.

  Any second now.

  Any second now.

  Would you like some coffee, my love?

  Did I tell you I can't go out no more?

  There's a man by the door

  in a raincoat.

 

 

  Stephen King, Paranoid: A Chant

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