My BalderdasheryBy Eric Paul Shaffer
|
|
Yeah, if a haberdashery is where Leo goes mad mixing mercury
and leather to make hats, I’m building me a balderdashery.
That’s right, my friend. I’m constructing a shop where I will
just make shit up, where I make my own way as I stumble, stagger,
strut, and sprint along head-long with a pen, paper, and a belt looped,
draped, and decked with tools to measure, cut, frame,
and finish whatever the hell I make of language. The cornerstone
shall be a boulder of blarney. How much bolder? Just enough.
Some carrier of hod, hooey, and horse puckey will bull bricks
across the yard, slather mortar for a wall or around a magnificent
empty hole where the sheer wonder of a window will someday
be lifted, glazed, caulked, and gazed through. Do you see
what I mean? The walls of my world will be sure, the foundations
will be square, all the lines will be plumb, blue and true, forthright
and straight-forward, for when I pluck the chalk line, the unvarying,
unbending score on the floor will be plain, and the rest will be right
as plane, saw, hammer, nails, knuckles, and backs bent to the task
can make a place. And there, I will whip and wind, ravel and sew
millennial and majestic apparel suitable for a page of any dimension,
east or west. Quality material will I cut from whole cloth, sewing
my pieces together with stitches that curve and weave seams sturdy
and steadfast. Get thee to a bookery. I’m busy. Do you not see
I’m atoil in my balderdashery? I only have to work to do,
and I have work to do. Here’s the fine mess I make of the swaddling,
suits, and shrouds I fabricate. Go! I imagine that among volumes,
quartos, broadsheets, and fascicles, someone will find something to fit
your flab or flatness to a habit, stiff, bordered, and black and white
print on a page in any book that covers you. Yes, they’ll say,
that sentence makes you look taller, and that paragraph takes years
from your face. Clearly, you are yet wrinkle-free and unblemished
beneath beams of sun or moon. See? The only crease in your visage
is the valley between recto and verso, and no, that chapter definitely
does not make your ass look big. Go, be garbed in the work
I’ve already ribboned, ruffed, and buttoned. At least, for the sake
of all I tuck, taper, and trim, step back. Get out of my light.
and leather to make hats, I’m building me a balderdashery.
That’s right, my friend. I’m constructing a shop where I will
just make shit up, where I make my own way as I stumble, stagger,
strut, and sprint along head-long with a pen, paper, and a belt looped,
draped, and decked with tools to measure, cut, frame,
and finish whatever the hell I make of language. The cornerstone
shall be a boulder of blarney. How much bolder? Just enough.
Some carrier of hod, hooey, and horse puckey will bull bricks
across the yard, slather mortar for a wall or around a magnificent
empty hole where the sheer wonder of a window will someday
be lifted, glazed, caulked, and gazed through. Do you see
what I mean? The walls of my world will be sure, the foundations
will be square, all the lines will be plumb, blue and true, forthright
and straight-forward, for when I pluck the chalk line, the unvarying,
unbending score on the floor will be plain, and the rest will be right
as plane, saw, hammer, nails, knuckles, and backs bent to the task
can make a place. And there, I will whip and wind, ravel and sew
millennial and majestic apparel suitable for a page of any dimension,
east or west. Quality material will I cut from whole cloth, sewing
my pieces together with stitches that curve and weave seams sturdy
and steadfast. Get thee to a bookery. I’m busy. Do you not see
I’m atoil in my balderdashery? I only have to work to do,
and I have work to do. Here’s the fine mess I make of the swaddling,
suits, and shrouds I fabricate. Go! I imagine that among volumes,
quartos, broadsheets, and fascicles, someone will find something to fit
your flab or flatness to a habit, stiff, bordered, and black and white
print on a page in any book that covers you. Yes, they’ll say,
that sentence makes you look taller, and that paragraph takes years
from your face. Clearly, you are yet wrinkle-free and unblemished
beneath beams of sun or moon. See? The only crease in your visage
is the valley between recto and verso, and no, that chapter definitely
does not make your ass look big. Go, be garbed in the work
I’ve already ribboned, ruffed, and buttoned. At least, for the sake
of all I tuck, taper, and trim, step back. Get out of my light.
Eric Paul Shaffer is author of seven books of poetry, most recently Even Further West (2018) and A Million-Dollar Bill (2016). Green Leaves: Selected and New Poems will be published in 2022. He teaches composition and creative writing at Honolulu Community College.