mmmcccxxxiv

Arborville Bids an
Abrupt Adieu to
“Hello Dolly”

     bee sculptures
     fiber building
     car surgery
        —John Ashbery

Reginald thought
better than to
wonder aloud
how many
savages
there were
to salvage.
When you’re
stuck in an antiquated
novel (akin to, e.g.,  Little Women,
Animal Farm, Catch-22, The Catcher
in the Rye), he’d always found it best
to skew expectations.  He wondered for a while
how weird it was that people even had expectations,
there was always so much skewing going on.  But try as he 

might, every moment nevertheless seemed more predictable 

to him than the next.  How could that be?  he wonders, darting 

back and forth like a madman or a manic lobster, sidestepping, 

taunting, catcalling, he’s just learned how to whistle at ear-

shriveling decibels; but no amount of herky-jerky, no sum 

of crazy-looking fits and starts, body crumpling, ballerina 

moves or fanaticism seems to furrow even the greenest 

brow. All is taken in stride. And he’s exhausted, decides 

to fuck it all, put on some Bermuda shorts and shimmy
down to Elmville Station and finally and once and
for all hook himself up onto the caboose,
all Houdini-like. That’ll show them!
he grumbles, utterly incensed.

Uh oh,
as if speaking to a
two-year old, but really
pitching the gibber-jabber to
no one in particular, Reginald’s
had such a lousy fill-in-the-blank, gooses Alice.

And that was the last that any of the company
and crew ever saw of Reggie Plouffender again.