Mannequin Envy
a journal of visual and literary arts
~fall 2006 ~
| Bio: Today I spent the afternoon repeatedly insisting that I was not Steve Martin in a query letter designed to garner me a literary agent. There are no explanations for the things I do, or at least there are no rational ones. In this, I feel connected to people like George Bush and Tony Blair. Another way of describing my life is to simply mention a runaway train in passing while gnawing on a chicken's leg. The Loser I promised to make them laugh. I promised them finches and catbirds in June, breezes for their grass, pollen for their air and an endless supply of ripples for their lakes. "A bullfrog in every pond!" was my campaign slogan. I said the rabbits would always run on time, my constituents would never be alone, there'd be chipmunks to escort them, melodic whistles and sharp red wings for their blackbirds, and masterwork museums in all the skies. I spoke about my mastery of protocol, how when I don't remember a flower's name, I apologize to it profusely, and how I always feel appropriately small walking among the volcanoes of the ants. I owned up to all my imperfections, spoke openly about the affair I had when I was twenty-two going on ten; I said that she was young and sexy but that it was over. I promised to introduce legislation to common sense. They wanted bigger glove compartments. They were more interested in what leaves I put in my pipe. And they voted for the other guy because his tie had the correct number of polka dots. Therefore, I, clown prince and poet, do hereby elect myself to the front of the parade of fools and swear upon three radishes and a fig to lead it, with all due preposterous pomp and hyperbole, nowhere and everywhere fast. |