Spectators,
spectacle, no different
from any arena.
Money and blood --
the literal, the
metaphor -- will flow
between the shot
clock and the dancing girls,
but now we wait
and watch as Advent drains,
unnoticed, down
the red and green hillsides
toward court and
Christmas. Oh say can you see ?
We look. The
armies gather, good and bad,
the nouveaux
Manichees, gnostic as hell-
and-heaven,
locked in death-grip and in scape-
goatery without
ransom or rebirth,
just numbers in
a stall. A good time ? Dial.
Our fingers
freeze. December, the North End,
blue noses and
blue teeth clamped to each ear.
Watch, damn you,
listen, look, it's Advent, pre-
game, countdown
to the show, our spectacles
are fogging over
with desire. For what ?
We wish we knew.
This twilight doesn't gleam
for me or thee,
but overhead where God
(in ages past)
hung helpless, now there hangs
the Jumbotron,
panoptical, shilling
whatever --
fish, flesh, flash -- its roving eyes
devour on our
behalf. (Behold ! Be whole !)
But look -- no,
look ! -- it's you and you and you
elect in
that big eye, all four facets !
I watch it
watching you as you watch back,
its temporary
apple; a flush of joy
crimsons your cheeks,
your smile illuminates,
astonishes: how
beautiful you are,
all of you, guests
of the big screen, worthy,
if only for a
moment, to be seen
just as you are,
embraced, and then released.
12.20.12
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