COMEDY Poem: The Ballad of Brad Grit, by David Capps

I sing the breath-stained ballad of the world’s leading man
who though he was a dandy had grit, though not true grit

of the purebred humankind awash all over him in brine
and reflected in the scenes on “big screens” of cinema,

yet grit in his eyes and his tail, aye, I the washed-up shrimper
sing his tale, the poop-veined tail of a shrimp.

My boat was small in those days when it scoured the marshes
small and netless, nearly deckless and free, as I rented,

and was paid for my labor, profits divided in three. The day
was special for our shrewd carapace (I won’t call it ‘he’)

when we drew from the swamp bottom our catch, and in it
Brad Grit, his true form mud-caked, small-shelled, stalk-eyed

and stinky. It was the size of your pinky. The day was special
its hero unsung, and we rubbed sweat from our eyes ‘neath

the Louisianan sun. What stared back at us seamen buffoons
was aware and alive, though an inscrutable ruin: strangely fit,

fleshy and pink, under our care or its spell, it cried not one whit,
for in our hands we beheld the beginnings of Grit. Brad Grit,

life’s vicarious fantasy, this extended portrait a trailer for Brad,
looming large, though tiny, like small fries we threw back, bad

though they cheered secret whispers, or so it seemed to us:
‘hip-hip, we are grateful to be here, for this!’ Far from stage fright,

the stage was a cuticle, and acting reacting by oil lamplight,
and no agents were present, nor contracts owed. From crusty shells

and tentacles, goodwill flowed, shown kind glimmers of fortune:
to have evolved like that, the first of its kind, an orphan

unnamed, with a curvature of muscle, and yet a Hollywood spine,
or flare, or bane, as no producers air-dropped in the sea-fed manger,

no probing guild, no kicking mules carried perfumes and wagers
to the blessed Brad Grit, born into an unholy swampland;

nor black lagoon creatures came as paparazzi to spectacle,
for such a model shrimp as he, perched in stainless receptacle,

salt-water anointed and washed in a mudslide, though boards
creaked in awe at the little green sprout for his head, which grew

when it stood upright, on its tail, the leading man struggled
like a mermaid, or merman Popeye, tattooed anchor recoiling blue—

Then what were we? Discovers of Brad Grit, tellers of tall tales,
but you have seen his absences, his longing recklessly off-set,

what yearning to tell the world’s secrets, and if he could speak
you’ve heard the recordings, smuggled no doubt by the drivers

of his car muffled sounds confessed to each lover, part power-
couple, one half his heart (the other reserved for stage):

‘I ov you, really I do, I of you, I ove…’ trails off as she passes
lighting cigars in the sunset, leading lady, next star who sashes

by wondering why do you scoff at the L-word, why do you leave
months on end? Where, for what shoot do you go, what Riviera

or cruise? From which beaches to return each time renewed—
a Brad Grit supple and white, striated muscle glistening bright,

your six-pack swimmerets with always more grit than before,
more darkened dirt yearning with every returning and more,

which salons and therapists and groupies and floozies? Faithfully
the world churns out their movies. But they will tell you one day:

(politicians rush to their stations, fried crustaceans say nothing
to deny previous charges, to admit popular knowledge is wrong)

He returns to the marshes, and must do so to spawn.