State Fair

October 4, 2009

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,

But necessary…

Give it a wink, for it seems she learned all

She knows in one fool-fucked-up-flash-

Of-non-ecstasy-fucking—and love,

It seems has necessities. Listen—

Thrusting, she says, my little burning

Red backside like a baboon

At a man who no longer cherished me—

Love’s Necessities…

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

Metamorphosis visible

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.

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