From Charles Simic, "Medici Slot Machine" in Dime-Store Alchemy:
The name enchants, and so does the idea – the juxtaposition
of the Renaissance boy, the penny arcade, and the Photomat in the subway, what
seem at first totally incompatible worlds – but then, of course, we are in
Cornell’s ‘magic regions’ of Forty-second Street and Times Square.
The boy has
the face of one lost in reverie who is about to press his forehead against a
windowpane. He has no friends. In the subway there are panhandlers,
small-time hustlers, drunks, sailors on leave, teen-aged whores loitering
about. The air smells of frying oil,
popcorn, and urine. The boy-prince studies the Latin classics and prepares
himself for the affairs of the state. He
is stubborn and cruel. He already has
secret vices. At night he cries himself
to sleep. Outside the street is lined
with movie palaces showing films noirs.
One is called Dark Mirror,
another Asphalt Jungle. In them, too, the faces are often in shadow.
‘He is as
beautiful as a girl’, someone says. His
picture is repeated in passport size on the machine. Outside the penny arcade blacks shine shoes,
a blind man sells newspapers, young boys in tight jeans hold hands. Everywhere there are vending machines and they
all have mirrors. The mad woman goes
around scribbling on them with her lipstick.
The vending machine is a tattooed bride.
The boy
dreams with his eyes open. An angelic
image in the dark of the subway. The machine,
like any myth, has heterogeneous parts.
There must be gear wheels, cogs, and other clever contrivances attached
to the crank. Whatever it is, it must be
ingenious. Our loving gaze can turn it
on. A poetry slot machine offering a
jackpot of incommensurable meanings activated by our imagination. Its mystic repertoire has many images. The prince vanishes and other noble children
take his place. Lauren Bacall appears
for a moment. At 3 A.M. the gum machine
on the deserted platform with its freshly wiped mirror is the new
wonder-working icon of the Holy Virgin.
