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MINIATURE

by Mac Wellman

From his miniaturist divan—a backless sofa with pillows; a counting room, tribunal or public audience room; a coffee house or smoking room—the inimitable Mac Wellman delivers his divan, a book of poems esp. one written (in Arabic or Persian) by a single author. Wellman’s cranky texts winging just over the cozies of the heads. Protesting without a nod to filibuster, preferring the zap to the slow gnawing away. Wouldn’t know had been stung until a swelling appears. He tunes his words with a fork and a spoon and sings shamelessly, singing, rhyming and timing, as if besotted on green eggs and ham. When working, he works against. When playing, he plays great. He divaricates. He buddies up. He sticks a straw in the hole on that hair of innocence that just won’t let go. So curious, Mr. Wellman remains, over what the tongue can do—having no bones. Bonus: a proper play at the end, Antigone no less. Not redux. As it as never been writ before.