So it goes and so it goes and so and on it goes War then birth then accidents. Then death. Time has earthlings in its throes But events all explode in one breath.
Someone trips then someone marries. Another gets a kiss. Out the window over there the fat lady eats an Almond Joy Live soldiers don as best they can what the dead ones will not miss. Isn’t it sweet how a slaughterhouse seems like home to girl and boy?
Once inside the slaughterhouse, the slaughterhouse is in you. War explodes time and logic and sense. It mixes cities, honesty, dust, and a shoe While readers in beds and bathtubs are blinded by official pretense.
War exists to help us make sense that nothing ever makes sense War takes you up in a spaceship and knocks you off every fence.
You and your Pale Fire
Uncle Vladimir has left us something from which we can learn.
He penned a book in verse that novel was.
And we, the beneficiaries, avoid it at our peril.
For in it he tells of teachers, nymphs and wives
And utters the thoughts we thought but could not say.
And, thus, he billows the mental sheet that is the life
Of a man who lived with wife on pillows and in chairs
With whom, over an uncomely daughter, he passed stares.
Vladimir, portly as a Hitchcock, wrote in English
Forsaking the warm Russian schlock
To chortle at the foibles of those who think
That they in universities do not stink as do the
Unwashed who live without degrees—
Who just watch television with afghans on their knees—
While they in gothic towers think lofty thoughts
Of all that is and of all the many oughts.
They hover over us for some reason
Despite the fact their great thoughts will never season
The lives of all those for whom they think they wrote.
Forsook, for soothe, for soot—and therefore why
Do we think so very much before we die?
When it’s about the end of Act Five that we really wonder:
When will intimate death our doorbell ring?
Suppressing the under-roof into a poof:
When surely our thinking shall cease.
Or will it?
It’s a pale fire, and then paler still
Never to consume more intimate history
Never more to creep or twist or twirl through logs
Wond’ring if a boy would ever, ever meet this girl
Who would think of her—yes, the very lift of my very nose?
Or my voice’s cadence—or my toes
Or with what pleasure I sometimes can drink a tea
Oh, would ever there be a he who would so think of me?
These thoughts and more dear Uncle wrote in this book
While we, from other shelves books took
And we read those or abandoned them or sometimes lent
A tome or two which destiny sent
To us, to pour into our holes
Yearning to be filled; so, sang our souls.
When all along Pale Fire was there.
Pale Fire. To be read, eaten, but never digested.
Tell me, God, or just a fellow human:
Is it for this cup of tea I live?
Or is it just to read this verse which our Uncle did give?
Oh, there is pleasure teeming in the lines of Pale Fire –
The book I have been dreaming.