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Show THREE-RING CIRCUS ' The X-mas party by Richard Barnum-Reece v ; J Poetic Order of Truth Merchants. Wierd, I thought to myself. This is plenty wierd. It deserves to be reported. The public craves knowledge so they can exercise a critical choice. Who knows? Maybe someone would like to join The Poetic order of Truth Merchants. "Would you like to join?" One of the people at the table was speaking to me. I was flattered. "No thanks," I said. "I'm presently engaged in the poetry hustle on a private basis and it's working out pretty well. Besides, I really don't think I'm interested in the same things as you people." I considered that a polite euphemism. Suddenly and in unison all of the twenty-four poets and poetesses released a silver tear that slid from their eyeball to their chin. It had a "I can't write a bad poem," she said. "I'm having a heck of a time. You see," she continued, "I've mastered the form." "That's because you believe in free-will," one of the poetry people interjected. He was dressed in black leotards. "You wouldn't have that problem at all if you would accept that everything is determined," he said. "Nevertheless," the girl said. "I'm fraught with existential angst because 1 am unable to write a bad poem." I felt sorry for her. "I think it's pretty relative," another poet person said. "Woe is me," the girl poet said. Her face was so sleek and tautly drawn that she looked like a cue ball. She was having a difficult time. "By the way," the girl poet said. "What's your sign." "Libra," I said. "You sure it's not Taurus." "Positive." "Really?" "Yes." "Wow," she said. "That's really far out." "Do you mind if I ask a question," I asked. "Not at all," the fellow in the black leotards replied. "Why do you have that sign in the window outside?" Last night I was driving around in the symbolic Porsche which my father-in-law gave me for not talking about integrity at the dinner table. It was dark and because I have a sordid fear of darkness I was naturally attracted to a brightly lit building where it appeared I could escape the difficulties of my metaphor. As I drove up I was immediately embraced by a large banner which was strung across the front of the building. The banner read: ' walk with God. Naturally 1 was intrigued. I do not consider myself an excessively religious person but I am also not so foolish as to commit acts of hubris in the same ball park as Vida Blue if he is pitching and I am at bat. As I have said, it was dark and even symbolic Porsche 91 1 's do not have enough magic to cover all bets. Other than the proclamation, the banner was not unique. It looked much like the banner at Safeway which says, Potatoes $4 for fifty pounds. Still, I felt a bit uneasy. People who walk with God or even desire to do so are not what I consider your everyday run-of-the-mill mystic. I was curious so I decided to go in the building and see what was happening inside. When I entered the building I immediately discovered a huge banquet room. There I counted twenty-four men, women, boys and girls sitting at the table which was in the center. Each person was turned to the left and was humming Muzak into each other's ear. On closer examination it was apparent that the Muzak was canned conversation which some master planner had programmed in the name of decency. My curiosity was whetted. It was apparent that these were not normal people. They were artists of the highest echelon. On the table were two huge partially consumed sparrows that the people had roasted for thanksgiving dinner. The party had been going on for some time. On the wall at the end of the hall was a sign cut in wood. The craftsmanship craft-smanship of the signmaker was terrific. The wood sign was engraved with the words, The V great effect. I was deeply moved. Next, they patted each other on the back three times. It was an obvious signal. "What do you know about poetry?" a girl with chesnut colored hair said. "Would you like to know more?" "I'm not sure," 1 said. "Could you give me some time to think about it?" They knew they had me confused. I was trying to cover my tracks. "Well, if you're interested I think the group could help you. I wouldn't be able to do much," the chesnut tressed girl said, "because I've got some serious problems of my own.". "What are your problems," I said. I thought it generous that she was so open. "The one about the potatoes?" he said. I was confused. 1 didn't say anything else. 1 thought silence was my best bet for coming out of there alive. "It's purely a coincidence," he continued. "I sprang for the door, tore it open, sprinted for my symbolic Porsche and drove straight for the Chronicle offices where I wrote this story down. Later I met the poet in the black leotards walking on campus. He said he was going to law school next year and that the whole incident in-cident was a sincere mistake. His sincerety was genuine. I felt a whole lot better about it. "Ho, Ho, Ho," I said to the poet in' the leotards. "I sure feel a whole lot better about it." |