Kabuki in Chicago
J. Quinn Brisben
Seventh of his line, Beiko,
With me wedged cushionless, achy
Knees bumping in the gallery
Designed for Nineteenth Century proles
Moving up the cultural ladder,
Suspended above the glowing cave
Of Adler and Sullivan’s Auditorium,
Seeing through binoculars like
Rommel’s army, hearing the clap
Of woodblocks, koto strum, flute wail,
Alien to my ignorant ears,
And seeing the red-crowned lion
Thrashing his mane in the garden,
Not much like familiar Leo
Roaring “Ars Gratia Artis” but
Kin in some way. Somehow decoding this
Is good for us, eases our pain,
Puts a frame around chaos
So we can paint it by the numbers,
Reminds us not to incinerate
Those producing an actor who becomes,
With the help of black-clothed assistants
Whom I already know I should not see,
A girl becoming in furious dance
A lion bedeviled by butterflies.
But, looking over the gallery rail,
I do not know what I am
Supposed to be reminded of,
Not knowing when to shout “Beiko!”
At the right split second into the light,
No gorgeous lunch box under my feet
With raw fish curled in drawers,
Not even an acceptable cross-legged
Sitter at low tables, not even
Believing that art ennobles me and
Makes me worthy to live on the sweat
Of narrow-assed proles, and not even
Having fun sometimes when learning
Is hard, but nevertheless becoming
One with Beiko the Seventh, becoming
A dancing girl possessed who
Becomes a long-maned lion
Absorbed with careening butterflies.
