JUAN AND DONNE

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ken and unspoken rules in the new match-with the spoken rules defined largely by whichever particular promoter would be paying the performers-was Carl "The Butcher" Sandburg, the broad-shouldered bard working out of Chicago. Perhaps that was because from the quartet of rhyming wrestlers, he was the one most comfortable with the role to which he had been assigned by whoever had outlined the ritualistic ring rhythms to be followed in the next renewal of a seemingly eternal form of conflict-entertainment. Carl was elated to be slated to perform as a good-sport/good-guy (what wrestling fans call a "face," short for "baby face"). As a relatively innocent fan favorite, he would almost always keep in character, ready to creep peacefully around the outside perimeter of the ropes in his pale-blue tights and soft new wrestling shoes trimmed with fluffy, gray-wh

emic critics was destined to be stamped and stained with the esoteric insult label "pseudepigraphic fabrication" and therefore . . . and so . . . well, at least one sophomoric wrestling-oriented sportswriter was wondering in print, "So what?" It was not as though Juan The Don cared all that much about whether or not a high percentage of the quatrains making up the text of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam had really been authored by Persia's most notable polymath before being translated into rhyme-patterned English six or seven centuries later; no, th

o was never in need of seeking funds for publication but seemed always in need of seeking improvement in the lines of a freely translated poem, might be looking also for ways to improve the lines of a wrestling

be killing time and his thirst back in the dressing room before the bout begins, I strongly doubt that he will be idly fiddling with the flow of scenic b

the climax to come. But motive? Well, I do think he has always been a mite jealous of what he might mistake for permanently meaningful-certainly not mean-attitudes in my . . . social experiments . . . with certain ladies. I have heard he has thrown in with the crowd that cons

he pond. To be honest, I am surprised you are comfortable sharing such unseemly perspectives with me. Then again, I spoze maybe yer thinkin' of that infamous q

ornish-Game-Hen-on-Toast" and arched his eyebrows. "Oh? You say?

traditional, apocryphal deprecation." He lifted his steaming cup with one h

, really. What di

tzy himself-unlike the others, admitted it! My buddy was trying to compose a song referencing that little confession. He was going to call it 'Free Fr

t

nd Juan The Don to go over the details of the match. But there was a problem: after his arrival, a complex mechanical breakdown in conveyor belts was preventing the retrieval of Dungeon Donne's baggage. The poetic pair then decided, anticipating an extended delay, to seek sustenance inside a reasonable facsimile o

of heinous "heel-theme" that Juan The Don would represent. "Fitzy, I'm not sure Byron is entirely comfortable with the verbal and visual tropes related to his real-life club foot-the one he keeps hidden in the black boo

ough Fitzgerald sometimes called himself "an almost vegetarian," he thought it odd that Donne refused to order appetizers containing meat. Yes, he knew Donne had implied in one of his poems that animals have souls, and kne

nne. "And so? Do you sha

them, prompting me to rush out frantically and pull him away in order to publicly preserve my co-face partner's reputation-to make it clear to the fans that such teasing and threatening action would represent taboo! At least in the ring we must respect Juan The Don's life-long, deformed-limb trauma, sh

shrugged his shoulders. "Fit

larity of his question: "How do you know that? With what aspect of this less-than teap

ron Byron of Rochdale seems excessively sensitive about that foot. He has told promoters more than once 'I'm willing to be a heel but unwilling to expose my heel.' Or something to that mostly-metrical effect. Carl called me and said our Juan The Don thinks you might flip the script-egge

ll jealous about my getting that big red yacht. I invited Shelley to take a little water-trip with me in Italy but appar

sk," sai

Th

hon emceed by post-Beatle, sacked-drummer, ringless Pete Best. In the few days following, Stevens asserted, he had been listening to the "necessary angels" of his nature and, "Tom, it turns out they prefer me when I'm sober." Eliot reluctantly accepted the Hartford insurance executive's apology but was not enthusiastic when Stevens added that he knew with certainty that venerable Whitman was available. The proponent of the poetic "objective correlative" concept was worried that the often free-versifying declaimer's choice of introductory phrasings might be excessively "subjective," even self-aggrandizing. Acknowledging, however, that time's wingèd limo

d his ears as the white-bearded bard from Long Island shuffled to the center of the ring in a long, gray, wool overcoat, ready to initiate the Main Event. Eliot held his breath, slightly worried that Whitman had not been paying close attention over the phone

ence. I have the honor tonight of celebrating not myself, but introducing other selves. And those I welcome, I assume you shall welcome, for every talent bringing excitement to me, will as well br

ly visible and palely similar to the color of his beard. Patrons in the exclusive ringside rows arose and clapped as well, stimulating a ripp

s of hope, formed in rings of golden rope, forged in cages of silver steel

uttered, "it is time . . ." At this pace, it would be bedtime before Byron was introduced. He let out a long breath, crumpled an emptied sack of peanuts, and made a mental note to request that wastebaskets be placed in each of the skyboxes. Re-cupp

ge, but still of perfect voice . . . welcome to this often hallowed mat-padded stage, two teams who will be tagging one

choose as favored for your rooting? Which, shou

ecome confused even further as all the ceiling lights in the building became instantly extinguished and a single spotlight aimed from some mechanical monstrosity that could have passed for a Civil War cannon shot a blazing red light down out of the far-away rafters to encircle a humanoid, purple-cloaked figure slightly limping on its way along the widest aisle in the arena, moving toward the corner of the ring where his partner had been visible moments ago. At first to

ensue. But then something sorcerous occurred: the face-masked figure removed his cloak, swirled it above the bear behind him, dropped it across the beast's black head, shoulders and back, then gesturing quickly with what might have been a diminutive, magician's wand or possibly a miniature, farmer's flail, seemed to command the ceiling lights to go out again-plus also the separate spotlights-but only for less than half-a-minute, and when the

microphone wedged within one of his coat's wide side-pockets, he merely mumbled into the othe

ands of hawser-thick rope, Dungeon Donne appeared to lose his cool, lose his temper, lose his future wrestling credibility, found himself hauling partner Byron awkwardly through the ropes and into the corner of the ring, where he proceeded to poke two fingers

bent down over Juan The Don's groggy body, and slapped the canvas once, twice, th

ox, T.S. El

to realize he was being treated like a stooge, lifted his black-masked head and reached up to grab the microphone from Felix "Cruel Claw" Katz. "Ain't

ssed referee Felix,

r and beg for sympathy," demand

sense of uneasy anticipation . . . "Stop crying, Carolyn," a mother's voice could be heard in a tone of des

white sides) and gently guided runny remains of its crushed-ice contents across the forehead of the fainted poet who she did not know was the author of certain anti-Semitic verses. The sticky melt dribbled down across his shuttered eyes, reviving him with a blinking shudder just in time t

zgerald" spoke

rtue underne

, a cock of

proceeding

within a va

his right hand in an ambiguously angled pattern-some sort of blessing? He

s masked eyes rapidly to the accompaniment of clanging bells (courtesy of certain hand signals referee Felix was making to the hammer-wielding official at a table just below the ring apron). The Baron's brain was less

ask," sa

n toward his chest, lips working laboriously, then slo

is ring? Is it

posing in sp

way for act

, now hidden,

derscore-what

x I stay primed

tunate falls are

images worthy

n the floor, finally succeeding in retrieving the flattened, bear-less, purple cloak. H

sk," repe

ed. The cr