My intention was to chronicle the demise of American democracy using the classic form of art, the epic poem. I wanted to heighten the moment in the vein of Homer’s “Iliad” or T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland” or Pauly Shore’s “He Who Farts Loudest Has The Final Laugh”. Sadly, I do not have the time or the rhymes necessary to take on such a large task for a mere audience of six or so.
Little is known (Actually, there is a wealth of information, but for my purposes, they are rendered moot.) about postmodern poet, e.e. cummings. All you need to know is: it is with the same arrogance in which cummings will not acknowledge upper case letters that he approached his slightly better than average ping pong skills. It is with this similar blindness he supported Joseph McCarthy and the Republican Party.
He was doing what he loved most: counting and cleaning. It gave him a real sense of purpose. This was a good day for Thurston. He dreamed of being an accountant, he settled for guessing one’s age and weight at carnivals. He was good at it.