XXX. The Explicit Canto (first published 2-4-13)

On this, the thirtieth in the series, allow me to reflect:

I remember the Super Bowl XXX, Dallas versus Pittsburgh,
I remember Breathe Right Nasal Strips™ and Doritos™ and the spectators in the Phoenix stadium being enlisted in an ad campaign (for what, I don’t remember)
I remember Abe turning thirty and thinking to himself, Is this it?
I remember Maggie and Abe reflecting on being thirty in the bar in downtown Durham that no longer exists.

I am not yet thirty.

And Pound’s canto thirty, the explicit canto, Artemis agaynst pity.
Don’t waste pity on that sympathizer in the asylum, certainly,
Jackass from Idaho speaking in a fake brogue.

XXX is the universal sign for missed connection,
The betrayal of the image
Or the betrayal of language by the thing seen,
Larry Flint presents: It’s Not Reality XXX. But
Should it be? Are we surprised that the X marks not a tangible,
But an idea, a vague notion?

MCMXXX. Does anyone see the future? Certainly
Not Tiresias. Blind, doty fool. Nor Tafari Makonnen, for that matter.
But perhaps Mohandas on his march to the sea could smell a bit of the blood in the air around him,
The sheeps’ entrails and libations and whatnot. They called it the Empire. X
Marks the X spot where we imagine little tyrants, failed tyrants of the sea X
Buried their failed tyrant spoils. A Klimt picked off an evicted Jewish family.

And so, in February, I write the thirtieth in a series that will extend, and I pour one out for the loss of even the pretense of innocence.

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