Beauty plate and glossy, like packing tape. It is raw on the inside. It is not for eating. There is nothing inside the pie. The table groans with fruit and foamcore true as a senator's smile. This meal set before a camera, before a commercial. The only taste is with the eyes. A hostess offers a silver platter, leaning to the limits of her boat-neck merino, purrs over how these gracious things can be ours. We are used to beauty aching this way. Tom Waits for No One How do we get from here to fluorescent lights in six thousand years or less? He had just started time, so whiskey was years away, but already He knew that lit-match aftertaste would be important. The next day would always be a crushed felt hat blown into a puddle. And they'd take it– the way they would all stop dressing in Sunday best on the deck of an ocean liner, and watch pool hustlers and tent preachers sign TV deals, and go to stag parties at beauty spas, and never learn to drive stick, and in general witness the decline of pie in the world. And God looked at His one, artless man, yet unbetrayed by love, the God-shaped clay endlessly surprised by tomorrow, there in a garden as quiet as a picture of itself. He remembered something Edward Hopper would paint– the smudged constellations waiting dumbly for judgment, their world a grey panic of anticipation. All those straight lines, newsprint columns and railroad ties. Not even a swing-and-miss at the curves He autographed on those six small days. The bank queues would always be straight. Not even a shrug. And the Lord God said, It is not good for man to be alone, with no one to miss but Me. Hints for removing miraculous appearances of the Virgin from your laundry before the stain can set or the pilgrims arrive. Pretreat with tears and club soda, 1:1. Launder as guided by the label. If her tragic eyes still gaze at you, consider changing your approach. If you find the Tide too constant, the All too infinite, a capful or more of Cheer may do the trick. Dry flat; cool iron if needed. Absolutely do not hang to dry in the marvelous sun. Coffee, cherry, the blunt green grass: every stain is a symbol. (Wine and blood are the worst.) For the most stubborn miracles, scrub with coarse salt, a sponge soaked in vinegar, the blade of a soldier, blind with rage. Forget her ancient, gracious smile. Leave it in the St. Vincent's box for someone else. Wash your hands. Dwell on Auschwitz and Burma. Gently despair. She will fade with time. Extra credit (Choose one) to its grandest conclusions: one daydreamy and one true. On the earth, draw a life-sized map of where the two of you are now. Elmer's glue a path of red yarn over the miles between. OR Compose the doctor's note excusing you from the draft. Write as if you have cornered a big Hollywood producer in the elevator, and you have forty-one seconds to prove your overbudget nightmare will not bomb. Recite it from memory for your gym class or your family at Thanksgiving. OR Send your twinkling soul laid bare to the New Yorker. Sleep in a vast manila envelope and dream of great names. Share half a bottle of decent Scotch with the rejection letter. Write back to the editors as if they are pen pals. Wait for a reply. |