Decius—whose guileful agency sustains
and decimates me—I know that some people
require fame as athletes; still others demand
election to office or every gadget
for sale on 42nd Street; Tanaquil
enjoys dozing in the British Museum
and its pub; she prefers them to Disney World,
while her Chair, who won an all-expenses-paid
weekend in Rome, Italy, would have favored
Las Vegas. Marvin enjoys drinking himself
quadriplegic, Joan backpacks through Toledo,
Kim helicopters into Iranian
deserts, and Flaccus shoots tame wild antelope
in a hired game preserve. As Horsecollar nods,
“It takes all kinds,” Madonna continues to
writhe in public, doing what she wants; Max finds
fire hydrants to piss against; Senator Hell
displays risky photographs in a cloakroom;
and Fidelia lowers her artificial
eyelashes in the direction of Tu Fu,
who sits cross-legged in his hut, composing,
oblivious that he is starving. Glaucus
urges American men to go bowling
together—to discover Mister Zero
of the bowling alley. Arbogast daydreams,
Camilla tends peonies ten hours a day,
and Julia with net and binoculars
treks through jungles and over Himalayas,
adding to her collection of deities.
I know that some people exist to look thin,
others stare at television sets all day
until they die, and others expend their lives
to redeem the dying. As for Horsecollar,
Decius, he’ll take this desk, this blank paper,
this Bic, and the fragile possibility
that, with your support, the Muse may favor him.