Local Archive: Cole Phelps Disguises Himself as a Priest to Draw a Confession from the Suspected Art Forger
Today I got engaged, if you didn’t hear from my other blog first. I was so excited I forgot about poems for a little while. Then I produced probably the least romantic thing I ever wrote. Sorry Abby. Sorry mom and dad. Sorry god. Sorry everybody.
In any case, I’m truly looking forward to a life with the girl who turns my wretched leering heart to gladness. This poem touches upon my lukewarm reception of The Avengers and Charles Brockden Brown’s 1798 novel Wieland, or: The Transformation.
Pete Campbell exchanged his chip n’dip
for a rifle.
Pete Campbell went to his grave with a chip n’dip
but returned with a rocket.
Pete Campbell sniping Cole Phelps from orbit, he hates him
for publishing more lyric poetry than he has.
Cole Phelps sucks pen nibs in Lindisfarne.
He makes copia confirme of Origen and Hermes.
He with a cowl and bare feet flogging his body
from the front with barbed clues and ragged chimes.
Every stupid murder is an original object.
I think I hate murder. I think I want to solve the mystery,
writes Cole Phelps. His God is neither good cop
nor bad cop. Pete Campbell’s is a mistress
who can be both confidant and convulsionnaire.
Both men write the same poem: it goes
Lullay, lullay litel grom/ king of alle thinge—
I think I’m probably going to nominate it for a Pushcart.
The most violent detective gets an achievement.
He hears a ding. Pete Campbell goes where the action is.
I found The Avengers to be deeply silly
when Space Pete Campbell emerged from a weird brick
with a stick and a horn helmet for a hat.
I thought it was silly that God literally appeared to man,
and the first thing everybody did was have a car chase.
They drove quickly, in forward and reverse, through a tunnel.
A lot of grim looking people shooting guns around.
Some rubble crashed down. I don’t know. Everybody looked apostate, to me.