Syndic No. 43 ~ David Giannini
Yakety Yak (Don’t Talk Back) & Audition
By David Giannini
Narrated by Charles Rammelkamp
Massachusetts
Yakety Yak (Don’t Talk Back)
It was still June and I was still April, my mom’s
kid, home from college, you know, when I
thought about joining a Tibetan monastery, but
after all that harsh yakking against spiritual stuff
from the fat old mothers on couches in our living
room, each wearing a mask of make-up, I
stopped believing in meliorism, at least that day,
and I wanted to look for yak butter, good in tea,
they say, to smooth the way, even though I knew
I wouldn’t find any, except in Tibet, maybe,
where clouds too might be shaggy like those
vegetarian quadrupeds clomping on the plateau.
But since we were all at my mother’s house in
Massachusetts, you know, I wanted to leave after
one yakker started waving her arms and knocking
into things. Yakety yak, yakety yak. Did you ever
see someone coldcock a Buddha with her elbow?
Well one yakker knocked mine clear off a side
table. That’s when I thought of nirvana glue to
mend its broken belly, that prosperity chamber,
you know, but, like, no such adhesive exists, or
none that I knew of, so there was just that
shattered dharma dumb Buddha belly which,
anyway, held nothing from the beginning and less
than nothing at the end, just like the rest of them.
Audition
No one else is in the coffin, only you, for no
reason you can remember. Then you do. And it
all begins again, the practicing with no one else in
the theatre.
After a while there must be judges, other players,
an audience, but no one you can see; and there is
no hand to pull the lever for your plunge through
the trap door which is like the top of a bench
made of framed thick glass, on which you sit,
unable to move anything but your hands.
It occurs to you that everything is set on a timer.
That must be why the ebony lid is slowly
descending overhead as you sit and see the coffin
below you again. The lid descends for what
seems a lifetime.
What bothers you most is that you might not fit
what awaits you, but in time you begin to
applaud the unknown.You can’t get up, but you can laugh. After all,
you are only playing, as far as you can remember.
Then the shattering begins, the glass shards from
the bench sounding as notes as you plunge
into the hammers of velvet,
the lid shutting over you,
shiny and so grand.