Epic John F. Buckley The heroic responsibilities of the legion of modern-day imitators swarmed in the dusty air at the café outside Thermopylae: clamoring for the ayatollah’s head, crafting a Twombly-inspired sans-serif font, sweeping the wood shavings, and all the secret missions written on slips in the chore jar. Several of them had forgotten to whet their #2 pencils upon their bronze cuirasses. One, two, three, they strode the earth like giants with dull points, hulking copycats bereft of a Hector, examining their chin hairs in shields like convex mirrors, unable to punch holes in paper. When the gods look down on the marble battlefield, they see a Jackson Pollack composition. They reach for sponges and the Mr. Clean until they remember the maid. My own fate resembled an arcing smear of chili oil on alabaster, something garnishing a plate of tamales at a Tex-Mex bistro. I would grow cold, soggy with hubris and crème fraiche, waiting for memories of an original sin to propel my postmodern elegy down the gullet of a milky gray stream.
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