Suppose we crown our symphony,
Hecate’s Symphony—‘On the
Genuine In Art’—with some
Old growth sour apples, grandma
Style. Suppose we pronounce the day dead
At dawn, kaput, finis, finished.
Rain all day, my friends, a wash out.
Suppose we market some saliva soap,
—Eh?—sell it as ‘The French Kiss’,
Salubrious Soft Skin—and then,
Suppose we issue a solemn nihil obstat:
Fat Fannies Permitted on Fair Grounds—
Only. That should keep the church ladies
Satisfied. And then suppose we spark
A tryst between you and me—
Not for Eros this time, and not for love
Of God—or for the love of Pete—
For Christ sakes—in fact it’s not
For anything, simple or solemn.
Simply put and solemnly said,
Suppose we propose a nihil obstat
Of and for everything… everything
Under the big top, that is. Thus:
“What is death in the circus?
That depends on if it is spring.
Then, if elephants are there,
mon pere, we are not completely lost.”
Suppose we do all the above, will we
Hear the songs as Hecate sings them,
—do we have a shot at that?—
—some sort of a fair statement?—
Something that’s real, you know, the genuine,
Something to grapple… unto thy soul
With hoops of steel—eh?—
In the next booth is Ann Carson. Here
To promote her assay in The Glass Essay—
The story line: The man she hoped
Had caught her thrust she has named ‘Law’,
And it seems she learned all she knows
About love from this guy…
…My love, she quotes, resembles
The eternal rocks beneath—
A source of little visible delight,
Give it a wink, for it seems she learned all
She knows in one fool-fucked-up-flash-
It seems has necessities. Listen—
Thrusting, she says, my little burning
Red backside like a baboon
At a man who no longer cherished me—
My, what a nice phrase!
Suggest we bottle that, and sell
It with the soap. Love’s Necessities,
And The French Kiss, ou la la,
A stocking stuffer, in thrusting red…
It’s not sober, is it? Love’s excess.
We think it’s genuine, then find
Ourselves trapped alone with
Baboons in sedimentary rock.
For Ann Carson it’s myopic:
It is as if we have been lowered
Into an atmosphere of glass.
Sure, if transformation, vitreous
Or vital—oh, but slower and the light
Is different here—could provide us
With the proper vision, a vision
That might make some—some—of the prayed for
As rifts in rock, as visible
As flowers left to sting the eyes…
But I promised you a symphony,
Some real music, ‘genuine’,
Is the word I used. Let’s go
To Hecate’s Pavilion for
A late lunch, my treat, so get what
You want. There’s corn dogs, barbequed
Chicken, pasta vazool, and real
Atonal music—grapple your hooks
In that, my friend—improvised right on
The spot by the ‘Earthquake Dirt Band’,
Music right off the Richter Scale—
The great tectonic plates, magma,
The epicenter just below our feet,
The ultimate metamorphosis
Of what cannot be burned, buried,
Or destroyed. Today’s the Fair’s last day.
All the ribbons have been awarded
—a guy named Koch took first place in
Poetry (pronounced ‘coke’, so
I guess it’s a natural),
And Ann got the red—so, a hearty
Congratulations to one and all.
Next year the theme is volcanoes.
Hecate promises a real one
Right here on the fair grounds.
Just keep in mind the metamorphic
Properties of the earth…and, hey,
Finish up your chicken before you go.
She hates leftovers.