Adrian Blevins
EXERCISE IN THE PITCH OF SHRILL
IS IT JUST ME or am I COOKING now? HONEY-CHILD,
DON'T BELIEVE A WORD OF IT. I can't drink champagne
And artichokes give me earaches. Even the herb garden
Is OVER AND DONE WITH. It's a WASTE OF TIME
And a PAIN IN THE ASS. Who cares about PARLSEY, SAGE,
ROSEMARY, AND THYME? Why are there TOO MANY COOKS
IN THE KITCHEN and thunderstorms and moths and bridges
And monkeys and shoes? WHAT IS THE DEAL with fishing lures
And why aren't there enough HOURS IN THE DAY? Why does Terry Gross
Have to say FRESH AIR the way she does? What is WRONG
WITH HER? She should be BEATEN WITHIN AN INCH
OF HER LIFE. She should be SHOT. I have really got SOME ISSUES
With Terry Gross. Terry Gross REALLY THINKS SHE'S HOT.
Everyone thinks they are REALLY HOT: they are driving hot cars;
They are buying hot beds; they are jumping up and down on the sidewalks
Going HOT, HOT, HOT. Even you-you really think you're hot;
You walk LIKE A GIRL; you shop at the co-op; you peek in on Elizabeth,
Who has always thought she was REALLY, REALLY HOT.
I'm asking you this: who cares about the apricot? Do you really eat free-range
Chickens? And why won't your canoe sink? I'VE GOT A LOT ON MY
MIND; I'm worried ALL THE TIME. I've got a migraine, an appointment
With the dermatologist, and NO TIME TO KILL. My mother-in-law
Is a JESUS FREAK. She's a WALKING ADVERTISEMENT for Jesus.
Well, MAYBE SHE'S RIGHT. Maybe THAT'S THE WAY TO GO.
Maybe Jesus is hotter than anyone, A HOT-TAMALE and HOT-TO-TROT.
Maybe Jesus ought to come down here right now and SHOW ME A THING
OR TWO. What would he do? DRAW ME A BATH or MAKE ME
A CAKE? I would do something: I would undress him. I would relieve him
Of his robe. I would get out my camera and TAKE A PICTURE
and send it RIGHT ON DOWN THE LINE to you.
BRIEF ESSAY ON SELF-CONTEMPT IN THE KEY OF 'S'
On the one hand, just shut up. You're a sarcophagus! Spud pheromone! Cunt-sachet!
On the other, you didn't pollute the consommé. You didn't erect the metropolis
or paste up that godforsaken wallpaper of megalomaniac roses
or write that sonata seeping through the pipes you didn't solder.
Then again, your mouth is a basin of smoke. Your skull is a lobster pot!
So yes you could perish and the world would go on spreading out its persnickety piss.
Yes the world without you in it would still have hibiscus exposed in books
Swathed in sensible synthetic slips: Schubert, semen, sorbet: sassafras, echo, snow.
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