An elegy for Mairtin Crawford, I thought I’d post this as a tribute to Jane Russell who gets a walk-on part in what tries to be an all-singing all-dancing Hollywood-meets-string-theory extravanganza.
Busby (and Bishop) Berkeley, meet Stephen Hawking…
The Barber of Corfu
If the barber of Corfu shaves only those
who do not shave themselves, who shaves the barber?
So many questions, it’s like an inquest.
Lazarus lets his beard grow, not designer stubble
now but the real orthodox old Father William,
and his toenails too. Such perseverance.
He’d remind you of Howard Hughes, or the Steve
McQueen of the last days, down south
necking snake-oil cures for cancer. Only dead.
If anyone understands what follows from
the barber paradox, it’s Lazarus now: there’s no
theory of everything. Only Jane Russell’s bra
engineered like the Spruce Goose, the solitary
pleasure of a baseball bouncing off cement.
Six feet under, a loop of cosmic string
Vibrates along his femur like a sob.
A bracelet of bright hair around the bone
it isn’t. An anti-photon glancing off a razor.