Allen Tice
has studied physics, math, modern and ancient languages and has taught college literature. Among his credits are The New Republic, The London Magazine and Light Quarterly. —Back to Bumbershoot Contents— |
At the FigLoaf Writers Conference,I went to the Old One—Bigfoot, they said, was his name. He taught me to live on poetry and eat paper. I said, Speak to me of God. He clapped one hand Three times and a sunflower peeked out of his ear. He said, “There are no more miracle-workers! Listen, That is an extinct behavior pattern.” Now, Bigfoot knows where it’s at and how it got there. I said to him then, Speak to me of Philosophy. And the sunflower fell to the table, glowing a terrific orange. My teacher, the connoisseur Bigfoot, tossed back his head and sang, “Said Bishop George Berkeley, looking Through a beer glass darkly ‘When a Tree Slaps the Ground God Riffs With the Sound. Amen.’” I said to my up-to-the-minute friend, the Neanderthal, I said, Speak to me of the Meaning of Life. And at the table where all of us lived on poetry, A soda can winked at another soda can. My pundit, the Enlightened One, whispered, “You must not play two guitars at once. Ravel would never Approve. Don’t do it.” I spoke again to the Sasquatch, I said, Speak to me of Love. The soda cans hugged near the sunflower that was orange. And the Sultan of Swing said, “Love floats like a butterfly and stings like a small hymenopteran. Love avoids serpents. Love is the superstructure and the base. Love can be fuzzy and love is a kiss. Love, be a lady, tonight.” And I left Bigfoot floating about ten inches above literature, With the soda cans running madly In smaller and smaller circles, Squeaking, While the sunflower made eyes at me. |
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