Phipps Page 2 The few, the feminine, reeking of continental     citrus perfume, bravely answer the painfully shrieking fandom     with flashes of blade-skimmed arm sockets and spontaneous flourishes of calligraphic keepsakes. Dull in off-the-rack cottons, earnest mortals     wrangle them into statuesque stillness for     photographers or sound bites into a microphone held by an ear-     plugged high priestess demanding identities of trainers, tailors, and     setters of precious stones. The virile and the fertile produce evidence of     rumors and declarations. Ironically trailing behind, the mermaid Starbucks     tucks in her tailfin under a designer train as her chariot crushes the     bones of her enemies. A noted player of fools lingers to milk a sight     gag. He drools while straddling a bunted railing past     scandals of rage and servants -- apparently forgiven due to costly litigation. Across the valley, the rear fence of his bungalow     sports his barrister judiciously deciding where he's going to put his     pool. But alas, they are gone: They have entered the pavilion to caress     celestial spheres and phallic swords; they have benevolent rosters of gratitude to      incant, some extempore, some from secured texts via     corrective lenses.