I present you
with an imaginary book.
Affixed inside is a small card,
seemingly a carte de visite,
upon which is printed...
HOMAGE
DE L'AUTEUR,
ABSENT
DE PARIS
...
* * * *
You notice
(& with your usual discretion
forbear to say)
that I am strangling
a dead horse
in this study.
Yes, it definitely appears
to be a photographic study.
* * * *
You notice the horse
is politely dead
like God or Mark Twain.
* * * *
You believe you see
a likeness of the author
superimposed over the horse's face,
a cheap, early-eighties video effect.
This is an annoyance in your day,
you whose main concern
was looking natty
for the Emperor,
or certain annoying members
of the Emperor's retinue.
* * * *
You were preparing an appropriate & appealing form
of rectal salts for the Emperor,
but realized you might get stuck
giving this lagniappe,
these salts of a hyaline blue,
to a random member of the Emperor's retinue.
Or worse--
possibly a member of the clergy.
* * * *
This is your greatest worry today,
and I have felt it deeply within my body,
as though the fear at how you revere your vanity
and the vanity with which you revere your fear
were somehow twin brothers born to posts
of unequal Greatness
in this Greatest of Wishful Kingdoms,
this Kingdom of the Greatly Wishful Ones.
* * * *
I watch you standing there,
holding that jar of hyaline blue salts,
and think of the Innocence of Palestine.
I also fold sanitary napkins,
while I write a poem addressed to you.
* * * *
I salute you in your entrepreneurial neuroticism,
and I apologize for setting flame to at least two thousand
cantilevered bridges you will shortly be crossing.
Forgive me, cherished one.
Their grandiosity and meekness irked me.
I have, however, lit the fire beneath the samovar
and am salting the kippers even as I write this.
Trust me on This.
The Tsar did not die in Vain.
xo
Your Rulicious Chevalier
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)

0 comments:
Post a Comment