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A little village in Texas has lost its idiot. -Caption on a protest sign Let us deal justly. -Edgar, disguised as Poor Tom, from Shakespeare's King Lear; act 3, scene 6 But where, oh where is the holy idiot, truth teller and soothsayer, familiar of spirits, rat eater, unhouseled wanderer whose garble and babble fill rich and poor, homeless and housed, with awe and fear? Is he hiding in the pit of the walkie-talkie, its grid of holes insatiably hungry, almost like a baby, sucking in the police sergeant's quiet voice as he calls in reinforcements? Oh holy idiot, is that you sniffing the wind for the warm turd smell on the mounted policemen backing their horses' quivering, skittish haunches into the demonstrators' faces? Oh little village among the villages, the wild man, the holy Bedlamite is gone, and nobody, now, knows where to find him... Lying in mud? lying caked in mud, hair elfed into knots? Some poor mad Tom roving the heath for a warm soft place to lie his body down, his speech obsessed with oaths, demons, his tongue calling forth the Foul Fiend, Flibbertigibbet as the horses back slowly, slowly into the crowd and he eats filth, he crams his ravenous mouth with filth— and then he sits on his stool in the trampled hay and deep-rutted mud, he anoints himself with ashes and clay, he puts on his crown of fumiter weed and holds his scepter of a smouldering poker and calls the court to order.

Purveyor of  rot and whatnot, entrepreneur of  I forgot, with wrists hard as hammers — that birthmark a slot — grip it, strip it, flip it hard — ramp my shard. If  fear be sexy, a synch & a match — Gone the way of  wax & worms — gone like November 2011 — sweet by nature, mean by culture — “Goodbye, luck, you idiot,” said the Fox to the Grapes. “I love you,” replied the Grapes.

In Aesop’s tales an honest wretch we find, Whose years and comforts equally declined; He in two wives had two domestic ills, For different age they had, and different wills; One plucked his black hairs out, and one his gray, The man for quietness did both obey, Till all his parish saw his head quite bare, And thought he wanted brains as well as hair. The Moral The parties, henpecked William, are thy wives, The hairs they pluck are thy prerogatives; Tories thy person hate, the Whigs thy power, Though much thou yieldest, still they tug for more, Till this poor man and thou alike are shown, He without hair, and thou without a crown.

Once upon a today and yesterday and nevermore there were 7 men and women all locked / up in prison cells. Now these 7 men and women were innocent of any crimes; they were in prison because their skins were black. Day after day, the prisoners paced their cells, pining for their freedom. And the non-black jailers would laugh at the prisoners and beat them with sticks and throw their food on the floor. Finally, prisoner #1 said, “I will educate myself and emulate the non-colored people. That is the way to freedom—c’mon, you guys, and follow me.” “Hell, no,” said prisoner #2. “The only way to get free is to pray to my god and he will deliver you like he delivered Daniel from the lion’s den, so unite and follow me.” “Bullshit,” said prisoner #3. “The only way / out is thru this tunnel i’ve been quietly digging, so c’mon, and follow me.” “Uh-uh,” said prisoner #4, “that’s too risky. The only right / way is to follow all the rules and don’t make the non-colored people angry, so c’mon brothers and sisters and unite behind me.”   “Fuck you!” said prisoner #5, “The only way / out is to shoot our way out, if all of you get / together behind me.” “No,” said prisoner #6, “all of you are incorrect; you have not analyzed the political situation by my scientific method and historical meemeejeebee. All we have to do is wait long enough and the bars will bend from their own inner rot. That is the only way.” “Are all of you crazy,” cried prisoner #7. “I’ll get out by myself, by ratting on the rest of you to the non-colored people. That is the way, that is the only way!” “No-no,” they / all cried, “come and follow me. I have the / way, the only way to freedom.” And so they argued, and to this day they are still arguing; and to this day they are still in their prison cells, their stomachs / trembling with fear.

Weasel and the Ponce were having a confab under the chinaberry tree, in the shade of the dusty old tree— pious Weasel, indefatigable Ponce. Abroad in the land were pickings to be had, marks beyond measure, fat aplenty for tooth and hand. Will and cunning are the clean, bright edges of a creature in the wild, of a vigorous man, so that goodness finds sustenance, charity nurture, in quietude, in quietude within. The nose will relate to you a world, a world entire, from the merest trace of wind— the topography of weakness, gold in a river’s sand. And there they sniffed, sniffed and with hooded eye conspired, in the shadows thrown by the dusty old tree. Trading knowledge, whetting tools, they made ready for their necessary enterprise, the fate nature bestowed. All the while drinking in each other’s aspect: they found uncommon pleasure there, did Weasel and his friend, in the other’s smile and guise, as a young girl in flattering light, as a darling young girl by her reflection might— the two of them, lovely beyond compare in the shade of the chinaberry tree. Groomed, laved with blandishment, almost gilded in the hours afternoon turns to evening and evening, stealthily, to night, how would they have noticed the rustle in the thicket, felt the heat of its burning eyes?

Two women with the same claim came to the feet of the wise king. Two women, but only one baby. The king knew someone was lying. What he said was Let the child be cut in half; that way no one will go empty-handed. He drew his sword. Then, of the two women, one renounced her share: this was the sign, the lesson. Suppose you saw your mother torn between two daughters: what could you do to save her but be willing to destroy yourself—she would know who was the rightful child, the one who couldn’t bear to divide the mother.

He fell and died, the skier, high up there in the snow. And now, spring having come, his father leaves his home, dark in the valley, to throw a hook in the heavy river.

The old Roman sow Bears a new litter now To fatten for a while On the same imperial swill. The cannibal wolf will dig And root out Spanish bones beside the pig. Germany has reared A rare ugly bird To screech a sour song In the German tongue: Tell me if there be A sparrowhawk for such birds as he? The parrots lift their beaks And fill the air with shrieks. Ambassador is sent From the parrots’ parliament: “Oh see how fine I fly And nibble crackers got in Germany.” Europe is a feast For every bloody beast: Jackals will grow fat On the bones after that. But in the end of all None but the crows can sing the funeral. Germany has reared A rare ugly bird, But crows ate Roman pig Before this bird was egg. And in the end of all Crows will come back and sing the funeral.

Here is the grackle, people. Here is the fox, folks. The grackle sits in the bracken. The fox hopes. Here are the fronds, friends, that cover the fox. The fronds get in a frenzy. The grackle looks. Here are the ticks, tykes, that live in the leaves, loves. The fox is confounded, and God is above.

Ink-black, but moving independently across the black and white parquet of print, the ant cancels the author out. The page, translated to itself, bears hair-like legs disturbing the fine hairs of its fiber. These are the feet of summer, pillaging meaning, destroying Alexandria. Sunlight is silence laying waste all languages, until, thinly, the fictional dialogue begins again: the page goes on telling another story.