Though we, of Dick Fancy, have figured out by now that the notion that there remains anything truly "original" or "still uncultivated" in this world is mostly an incorrect, unhelpful one, and though we didn't think we were the only Dick Fancy tooling around here in the internet time-space continuum, we guess part of us (and if you're wondering at this point who this multiple "us" and "we" is (are?), well, as you've probably already suspected, we are a group of small, bearded men who live together in the basement of an old meat-packing plant in South Dakota, much like Snow White's seven dwarves, except there are only six of us) still hoped that Dick Fancy, as the name of a blog, might somehow remain our unique, original, still-uncultivated property.
With deep regret, we ask that you cast your eye upon: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0266697/
Next: https://twitter.com/leanderTrey
What? "leanderTrey? Far as we can tell, nowhere on this gentleman's "twitter" account does he even grace his audience with the unique privilege of Dick Fancy-ness. "The epitome of hyperbole," so says his tagline. Indeed. We'd say the epitome of leading-astray, of the abuse-of-title! Shame on you!
And then, there's this: http://dickfancy.tumblr.com/. We'll speak not even to the content here, but to the fact of how easily our two very different attempts at "Dick Fancy" might be misconstrued, confused for one another, or any number of mishaps. It's just, there are too many variables, too much that might go wrong when navigating these choppy waters of .blogspot, and .tumblr, and god knows what else. There's much in this world capable of stirring terror in our hearts.
We have little else to say about it. Truly, we've gone back and forth about whether or not this is even fertile enough subject matter to include at all, or if it's just boring and tedious. Surely, fertile is the wrong work to describe it. There's just nothing "fertile" going on here. We are six bearded men. We live alone. We have stacks of porno in the bathroom, but, truly, we don't even look at it. We sometimes gaze at the covers, scratch thoughtfully at our furry chins, but ultimately decide that to look within would require more of a time commitment than we're willing to make.
We swear the man sitting beside us (all six of us) at the long table at this cafe saw the subject of our google search, cast upon us a disapproving stare, and then found it necessary to remove himself from this place and make his way back onto the cold streets. The bitingly cold streets seemed in that moment more hospitable than remaining beside the row of us and our long beards at this long wooden table, suffering the look of horror on our faces when we saw the pages and pages of search results that Dick Fancy produced.
Enough of this. Now, a poem:
Promise Me Your
Teeth
How a bird shoulders seed
too large for its mouth,
bulge of ambition
protruding unnatural
round, like a thimble
in its throat. I look
squirrels dead in the eye
like to challenge: tell me
you will not lunge all rabid
at my throat, promise me
your teeth will not spark some unloved
wildness in my blood, to be skimmed off
the surface
with a sugar spoon, oh
tell me I have not loved
too much to quicken another's throat
closed in thought of me, in regret.
Speak me
the place satisfaction is held. Is it
laid
neat in the belly of steel-tipped
trunks—those
who possess it—folded in with old
broke sconces, wedding rings
and baby shoes, pressed linen napkins.
Squirrel?
Your hind legs make me giddy; I'd
borrow
those fur-pants, if only
they would fit.
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