The story goes this way
This is how they tell it
It’s an old story
Now it’s starting
There was a poet
Or maybe he was a painter
This was a long time ago
He drove everybody crazy
Yakkety-yak with his poems all the time
Or maybe it was splashing paint all over everything
It made everybody nuts
They didn’t like it
All those poems keeping them awake half the night
Or maybe it was pictures every place
Even on their furniture and their dogs
At least that’s what they say
That’s the story
And everybody said, Stop it!
Just cut it out! Don’t do it anymore!
All the yakkety-yakking
All the paint flying around
Stop it! they said. Get a job! Do something useful!
Beat your word processor—
Or maybe it was paintbrushes—
But did that poet (or maybe it was a painter) stop?
You already know the answer
Nope Nein Nyet unh-unh No way
The story goes on
Here’s what happens next
They grab that poet
It could have been a painter
They grab that guy by every arm and leg he’s got
And probably some other parts
They grab him and pick him up
About which he is not happy
About which he feels his personal space is being rudely violated
Invaded, trespassed upon
About which he is pissed off
Notwithstanding and nevertheless
The crowd, the throng, the as-it-were mob
Continues the grabbing and lugging and hauling away of this guy
Jim could have been his name
But I doubt it
And they tossed him in a hole in the ground
Threw him down a well
A deep one, really deep
A thousand turtles at least
You should have heard him as he fell
What a racket!
Now the story is about half-way through
More or less
Although as far as that poet who could actually have been a painter is concerned
He’s probably thinking at this point that the end is right around the corner
And he’s singing
All the way down
Singing The Waltz of the Sugar Plum Valkyries
He just belted it out
And the Grand Inquisitor’s Aria
All the goddamn way down
To the bottom of the well
A thousand turtles deep
Oh and by the way
They threw his wife down with him
You can call her Estelle
Although her name is Debbie
What’d she ever do to those folks up there
So they’d throw her down a thousand turtle well?
Marry a poet? Marry a painter? Invent Phenomenology?
Tell the Assistant Chief of Protocol and Conventional Morality
To go fuck a watermelon?
She doesn’t sing down the well
She’s pondering Heidigger and Jean-Paul Sartre
Being and your basic nothingness
Thump! They land
Surprise! They’re not dead
They put their bones back where they belong
And look around
Could this be Hell? the poet/painter reputed to be unJim but not bloody likely asked
Hell, said Debbie, is an elevator full of existentialists
Not half bad, says nonJim, unJim
Nosing around the place
A guy could get used to it here
See, there were fruit trees everywhere
And cellos and brooks and tame gazelles
And plenty of naked people
Oh, you bet, there was nakedness and downright nudity
Just all over the place
In every nook and cranny
And a kind of rosy-fingered light
Just suffusing and suffusing
And those naked people
Oh it was hard to take your eyes off them
Getting to know each other better
Whoopee! howls notJim
And ungarments himself post haste
While Debbie begins deconstructing Jacques Lacan
And wouldn’t you think our purported Jim
Would mix it up with the other nakeds?
Hump a little
Bump a little
Fondle someone’s rump a little?
Hard to believe
But that’s how the story goes
That’s the way it’s always been told
Since the beginning
We’re getting close to the end now
It’s almost over
So naked Jim he just yakkety-haks
Well, he’s a poet, what can you do?
Or maybe a painter Hieronymous Bosching the whole damned place
And you know it drives those naked people nuts
Stop it! Just cut it out!
Don’t do it anymore!
All the yakkety-yak all the flying paint
But did he stop?
You guessed it
So then all the naked people grabbed that guy
And his metaphysical ontological wife
By their various and sundries
Tossed them up that well
A thousand turtles high
Maybe higher, who knows
They fell up and up
Up and up they fell
You wouldn’t think anybody could fall that far
So-called Jim he’s singing up a storm
The Internationale and the Victory March of the Swans
And Debbie does zen koans
You know, like Does a dime have Buddha nature?
And Nanquan cuts the cheese
Things like that
They land on the ground
Right back up there where all this started.
Let that be a lesson to you
Now they story’s over
There’s no more to tell
What’d you expect?