B H Fairchild Meets My Unfair World

I was reading some B. H. Fairchild last night. I purchased his Early Occult Memory Systems of the Lower Midwest, which if nothing else at all is a magnificent title. He writes in strong rhythm in what appears to be meter some times and free verse others. His writing is very evocative of a time gone by, in the same manner as the movie The Natural. I like it plenty but it makes me wonder why such talent isn’t applied to contemporary life. So I decided to write something that maybe illustrates why it’s so difficult to write in the heroic mode today. But it’s probably just me.

An Inspector Meets the Quality Control Manager

The way he grips his calipers with loose
abandon, just before he measures face
plates for the newest tweeter, resonates
in frequencies much higher than the grace
of gods. I watch him slowly parse an inch
to thousandths, then convert the measurement
to millimeters in his mind without
the help of angels. Sure, my wonderment
precedes my reverence but that will come
in time. He knows that Zeno’s Paradox
informs the universe with secret code
that only strict devotion can outfox.
I know that in a world that worships praise,
only my boss can offer me a raise.

Gregory Perry 2004

(Revisions will be here.) It's not quite autobiographical although I've been in both sets of shoes in a previous lifetime. But what's changed from the world of Fairchild to my fair world? Or is it just stance?

But now for the big finish. Saving the best for last, here's Fairchild's poem about Mickey Mantle as a boy wonder, titled Body and Soul.