Jody's Notes
If it's true. That "Echo" is the name of someone from a myth. That it's part of our language, that it's still part of our language.
Fame. Think about Mickey Mouse. Sherlock Holmes, Dracula. Realize that if you want real fame, long-lasting fame, you have the best shot at it if you don't exist. Some existing beings manage it too: Shakespeare, Albert Einstein, Adolf Hitler. But there are a lot more nonexistent beings who are famous, who we look up to, who we care about ...
The image-dappled mirror
with ghosts that kiss Narcissus
full on the lips. Echo’s
stereotyped cries flutter like bats,
her image dead to light.
She watches his body slim to ribbon,
waffle to the end, her expectation
cut down in its very prime:
If only if only.
We reflect on this myth; yield
a name or two of a flower
in memory; wonder if,
in time, her appetite
would have diluted into fetish.
The gods hate in many ways:
Her blood they turned to light
scattered among blinded eyes.
The rest of us they simply crumple.
© 2004 Jody Azzouni