The Blue Angel

I am not a myth. -Marlene Dietrich

Who else but an idol be trucked out
in phrases as arch as ‘twirled-orandy’?

Maybe the pedestal with a hydra-
headed something or other—
is it a dragoon? or a double-eyed

Drunk sailors, frenzied
German students, the
soon-to-be clowned
Herr professor, all see
the stage, adore the singer
and miss her notes
of material omnipotence:

steely gaze, floppy hat brim, willowy boa

& a barstool of composed splendor
a beerhall serenade sung through a pan,
all narrative lost to a close up:

fair striations, a blond-coif,
bunned coils magnified for distance
harmony protracted into a compact
as Von Sternberg’s aims brush-stroke her lumen
and fire the flesh-points like a newborn Perugino.

blue <= Tim Keane => blues