000_0018The King of DogFarts, or, An Artist’s Decree

I am the king of dogfarts. Queens are ladylike and do not fart – I’ll have to change my sex to be this dogfarter; and so, I am a He-Man dogfarter drinking from a flagon, lifting my great rump off the back of the chair and edging it up towards the Heavenly Face (perhaps that’s why He frowns, – or does He laugh?) and trumpeting my stinky song skyward. It is a cavernous, hollow, bamboozled sound: clown-like, pronouncing.
I will never be married. In my new position, I will win the Coveted Prize of the DogFarting Championship. People will come from every land to sit in the audience and watch the spectacle of the dainty girl turned Champion DogFarter Knight Sir Fatty McAllister of the Round Table: mythic in porportion, fat as a scholarly wrestler, propitious with undergarments, rascally in pride.
Known throughout the land as a lady’s man, as a mischievous, eyenarrowed perpetrator of trumpety remarks on the King’s secret behaviors, I raise one fat finger, unfurling as if to make a vote in Parliament; ’tis I, Fatty. Even known to entertain the Queen in her quarters after hours, shall I say bedchambers, albeit at a distance- by the window if you please , with squeals of delight emanating from behind be-curtained walls ( guards with furrowed and begrudging brows bite cheek) as raucous explosions from abundant hindquarters ensue. Those squeals are from her flustery ladies in waiting , the King’s consorts and Queen’s button doers, who, behind their fluttery kerchiefs pressed amusedly to their painted lips, – are blushing for Fatty the Knight, who has no sense to be embarrassed for himself while the Queen reaches out to them all, flagging her own little hanky with one pointed finger, wagging, and saying “ Look , oh Look ! How he’s done it this time , Our Fatty ! Oh , don’t call him that , – use his Christian Name Alabaster ! HAHAHA! Alabaster McAllister ! What a Farter he is !”
In the morning after toast and jam, before the ladies line up outside the palace to sadly wave Fatty away with those same hankies, there is a ceremony in which Fatty recieves a medal and the title “Sir” for his proliferous efforts. He also gets a horse with white arthritic knees, but a good strong back. When he kneels to take the medal round his thick and trunky neck, he bows then cocks his head irreverently. When he’s sure the Queen has held her baited breath and he feels the medal slip around his neck, Fatty looses the biggest dogfart yet, and a mythic ball of smoke hangs briefly in the air. The crowd swells with approval. Knight Sir Alabaster “Fatty” McAllister never disappoints.
And so my singleness comes as no surprise. I sit here and fart out my life, inconstant. I shape shift between magician and faithless rogue. Between bag lady and mountain tamer , poet of the hills. Image mover and maker. I am certain to be hoarding bugs in my ears. They have crawled there in the night with messages of what I was supposed to be, and are now clogging my brain with unnecessary bits of paper, dust and web. The tubes are blocked and ringing, yet each day is given again, a candy wrapped like a memory.
I’d have had a better chance as Fatty, – would have had some fun , sliced off a few dragon heads, cracked a few jokes , and entertained the masses at the King’s dinners. Instead I am a women in the year 2009, single, bladder full and womb empty. An artist with no paint brushes. A singer with hundreds of songs; laryngitis. A piano tuner with two bad hands. A cook with a cold, ‘ choo.

Throw me in a prison cell. Deliver food to the rake that separates me from the public hall. Slip the soup under , watch it slosh on the tray. Still I will come up with puns and praise for the way the Master Key Jangler runs his House of Bars. Erase my glory, erase my hope, erase my chance of a future and still I will write words and hang a paper banner with the word Welcome on it. Such is the job of the poet. Plunge your fingers into his eyes, eat the eyeballs if you are so inclined, but the poet will find a way to spin that eyeless state into seeing, to sit at the bottom of the blackest well, humming a few select notes that conjure for you a crow in silent wing-stretched flight across a round and lonely lake – the poet brings us to our senses.

So why would you punish us, world? And say we do nothing for you? Why would you keep us curled in a ball , – an appetizing cheese ball covered with walnuts ; take me out, slice me up, slap me on a cracker! Let the peoples’ mouth water ! The results must be amusing, unnerving.

For we stir it up , don’t we , we stir it up and how we love the stirring. This world a seething wormbowl of lies and liars, howling and turning: throw the dirt in, mix it up, turn the bowl out and add water. Soon there will be a garden, and when you come to get me out, you will smile to me, and we will walk in it. Perhaps you’ll hold the hose for me and help me wash the dirt off, and then we’ll watch the dragon flies on tender tops of purple flowers rest, buzzing and piercing the air with their little saw voices: a trifle, a clue.

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