mo' po': mo' bob

CONSIDERATION OF SONG

I've been trying to think of things that sound like Ethel Merman
in a bread box. Ethel Merman in a bread box is of course
choice #1, my father's Jacobson lawn mower is next,
then there's a blender full of keys on frappé, a bag
of one hundred thousand molars dragged behind a car, and now
I wonder why I wonder this. I guess it's because
I've never been, or even tried to be, a Minotaur.
This refusal to embody the lives of others
makes me feel lonely, which brings to mind
large sounds coming from large bodies in large halls,
and this, if you look her up, is the definition
of Ethel Merman. I've known a few singers who've done well
locally, they have gigs, fans, they own microphones
and water their voices, one wears a red scarf
around his throat like it's a Christmas tree. They say
they feel abandoned when the night ends, when the crowd
breaks into particles, into dust, I've imagined this grief
as skin made of butterflies when the butterflies leave.
There is no business like show business, nothing like the voice
reaching out, nothing I can do except listen, and scream,
and every morning, when I put bread to my ear, I hear fields
coming closer, wind walking fingertip by fingertip
across the wheat, singing nothing, nothing but eat.