Canto
V
Like Dasius we wish we had taken ourselves less seriously earlier in life, wish we would have known that vinyl might skip but digital has no balls, that Brooks Brothers made stuff for women as well as squares, that plastic goes from gold to platinum like poop through the scooper, that films shot on Panaflex have more depth than movies on Scotch, that department stores shouldn’t name themselves Target, that Auckland has trumpets with flames bursting instead of fanfares, that chairs without arms are chairs without butts, that vodka made in Ireland reads like books about SMILING— Dasius didn’t get the whole Seinfeld thing and Larry David leaves him broken— Franz Hals’ Gypsy Girl about to have a wardrobe malfunction looks like Happy Trails for Trigger— prairie
turnips Celucci gets so impatient with people who believe in the supernatural— children who eenie meenie minie are no worse than old women who try to cast spells on the birds— they’re benchwarmers at the Peace Park, whiskered, plenty of crusts bagged from the day-old table in their retirement home’s lobby— pigeons fight with squirrels while the witches throw gingerbread wadded over their lovers’ hair or fingernail clippings— their ancestors had only the supernatural to amuse because they couldn’t read or write or even draw— they lived in dirt huts and ate rotten bread or beets or potatoes or turds— their children were no more than mud enrobed vermin— how they survived much less thrived we’ll never know— but no one made it past Czar Josef, their entire towns flattened like grapefruit beneath tanks : an end to their suffering? only relatives in America know After dessert, who can testify to the real real of Dasius’ dilemma or give eyewitness of other saturn-alias where personators must slit their own throats? Why was Dasius beheaded one month prior to the festival? Why was Saturn an unpopular god until his festival occurred? Even Julia Child knows where food sits in the scale on the god’s tableau— Pretty
darn dear it is! After
dessert, an angel standing at the wheel of the
sun cries with a loud voice, saying
to all that fly in the sky: "Come!
Be gathered together to the great supper of God . . . that
you may eat the flesh of horses and of those who sit on them . .
." Listen the
bears pine in the courtyard : who
has sherry for them? : whose
ropes hang loose? Hieronymus,
the lions have unbridled the stable— sing
to your mounts, “I saw Dasius and the souls of those who had been likewise beheaded for the testimony of Jesus, and for the word of God . . . They lived, and reigned for the thousand years . . .“ Yet, we have no
bannetons, today. So, the question that preys on our minds, “Why did Stein call Pound the village explainer?” as though the village lacked explanation— always the village wants less explanation and more food— bread baking in its beehive ovens or fish drying on racks or wheat threshed or rice hulled or deer bled out while hanging outside the parsonage— Old men and camels working the water-wheels— all our strivings pass as a puff of air, a breath blown amongst the masses jaywalking on Fifth Avenue, amongst the tourists toiling through the catacombs, amongst geese, even high grass blowing in the meadow breath invisible and past such is every human joy spent with air, with exhalations that thoughtlessly were spent in pursuit of vacant goals, wan dreams, pale imitations of grace, of beauty or art— : darkness falls : Republics topple : tablecloth stains Ain’t we just stuck on us? tiny hearts tiny minds instead, embrace the nothing that is Tycho Brahe makes the crawl on CNN Headline News, “the ƒtarres therefore move in the heavens as birds in the aire, or ƒiƒhes in the ƒea, and the like . . .” His wheel as that of Darwin’s having come to nothing in the continuing back slip of science to the superstitions of Modernity, the astrological pedantry of Apian’s chart where the motion of the spheres is governed by earth’s rotation not the revolution of the firmament— the firmament being so infirm that the galaxy spins around a black hole and not earth, how galling! Decrepit science with no exaltation but exhalation the breath moving the wheel a negativity of space made by a singularity of matter made so grave that gravity falls inward until nothing can escape! Draw close to the abyss, Swing out over the ravine, Grab your vine— Tarzan, Jane, Boy wallow if you fall— next stop Disney
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