Super Bowl XXXVIII: Twelve Ways of Looking at Super Bowl XXXVIII
composed in real time by Joshua Adams

Aristotle writes in the Poetics that poetry is "something altogether greater than history." Much the same formulation can be made regarding the Super Bowl: it is, in all of its material excess and spiritual waste, it is something altogether greater than America.

How is this possible? Because the Super Bowl crystallizes the rich variety of American culture into its essential ingredients: masculinity, violence and consumerism. And cheerleaders. It renders these ideas so thoroughly that they loom so large over our heads that we can no longer see where they began. No longer a game, the Super Bowl is a religious holiday in secular language, our very own May Day.

Thus, a poem about the Super Bowl is a fittingly decadent way to chronicle the apex of American decadence. The model for this kind of work is, of course, Wallace Stevens, whose work, not unlike a Britney Spears shill for Pepsi, is both alluring and abstract. Thus the title of the piece: "Twelve Ways of Looking at Super Bowl XXXVIII," a blatant theft of "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Black Bird." My apologies to the Stevens estate are heartfelt, but, probably, too little too late. Too bad.

The lines are mostly in iambic pentameter, and the last line of every stanza has three syllables. Steven scholars will protest this tinkering with the free verse of their patron saint. There's a method to this: the opulence of the Super Bowl, its heroic pretensions and its apology for Empire are most reminiscent of the Victorian period.

A quotation attested to T.S. Eliot goes like this: Good poets borrow; great poets steal. Here's to theft, and to the conclusion, that, in the end, football should not mean, but be.

"Twelve Ways of Looking at Super Bowl XXXVIII"

I.
Among a thousand American flag
placemats, the only moving thing the ass
of Beyonce in the land of the free.
Toby Keith croons, the cheerleaders waggle,
Tom Brady stands, a man with a package
(or so we have heard). The hour draws nigh
Twenty-five past Six, and a spread of the same,
Pick the Panthers? You'll have no-one to blame
but yourself.

II.
I was of three minds, like a field goal -- missed!
The South Dakotan kicker owns the day
no longer? How could you, Adam? Wide right?
Vrabel, verily, sacks the city Delhomme.
Would that Hugh Jackman shelve the Van Helsing
and punt for the Pats. Friendly bounces won't
carry the day. This isn't Survivor
though "All-Stars" with Jerri the lunatic
tempts. Focus, bard, pick the right CBS
spectacle.

III.
The yellow flag wilts in the climate control
Holding is a penalty pantomimed
but so is a scoreless first quarter.
The spaceship reliant looms in the air
unlike a twenty-two yard punt. Oh woe
to the team with zero yardage, to the
foes of Grand Master Big Brain Belichick.
The minutemen drive on the wings of Troy
Brown, and Deon Branch, who bends but not breaks
on Fourth Down.

IV.
Upon further review a man and a
woman are one and the same under pads.
Why not a W.F.L.? It's about time.
The Continental Army marches fast
to Vinatieri's place -- another
missed kick! Inconceiveable. All of our
intelligence pointed to W.M.D.
on that front. Brady is slow, but Cheney
is slower.

V.
I do not know which to prefer -- the beauty
of a touchdown pass, or a touchdown dance.
Delhomme fights back, the Cats air it out,
Ricky Proehl's hands are their weapons of choice.
The clock runs down, but not fast enough on
those AOL ads. Delhomme again hurls
celestial -- Steve Smith is already
dancing a jig. The Panthers are on the
board. 'Bout time.

VI.
Icicles fill the windows of Boston
But in hot Houston, Jessica Simpson
is busty, but Janet Jackson is bustier.
P. Diddy in fur and Nelly's wife-beater
bring us back to Nineteen Ninety Seven,
when, alas, we all first heard of Kid Rock.
Janet returns in chain mail with Justin
Timberlake in tow; one breast later we're
all wondering if that counts as roughing
the passer.

VII.
O thin men of New England Special Teams!
Why do you insist on sucking it up?
It vexes your defense most unhappily
like the streakers do the network's censors.
Jermaine Wiggins, turncoat, won a ring
with the Pats; now he hurdles cornerbacks.
Unflattering close-ups of cheerleaders
are less exciting than a three-yard gain.
Cialis, on the other hand, can last.
But four hours?

VIII.
I know noble accents & fumbles when
I see them. Delhomme gets lucky while the
Pats reload. Chris Jenkins jumps the gun (again).
Somebody get that man some sedatives.
Throw to Branch and the catch is guaranteed.
Same goes for Daniel Graham. The drive ensues
but Carolina gropers hold again.
That's good for half the distance to the goal
and a New England score. The kick is good
for a change.

IX.
When Steve Smith flies out of sight, look out below.
A pair of leaps as tall as spires lead
to a DeShaun Foster rumble, stumble score.
To go for two is folly incarnate
and yet the Cats still try. Meanwhile
General Brady zings a pass or two
upfield. Confidence is King in Bahstun,
on Third and two there's little doubt a
First will come. But then an interception
turns the tables.

X.
Carolina leaps ahead in one play.
The margin's one and that won't do back home.
Belichick begins to groan, and Upset
rears her head. Can Tom Brady save the day?
Or, barring him, our fickle, kicker, friend?
Give it to Givens at the third yard line
and watch him twist and sprawl and run his mouth.
From the dark side of Defense comes one Michael
Vrabel, Buckeye, over the middle. TD!
Plus two points.

XI.
Delhomme rides over New England in a
glass coach. A hole the size of Texas in
the secondary affords a big play.
A vaunted defense no more? Suddenly,
not Susan, but a tie. Ricky Proehl again
sticks the knife in the chest of Belichick.
With one minute left, there's little to do
but head straight to a field goal's promised land.
Pass interefence on Troy Brown? Ye gods.
The clock ticks...

XII.
...The river of red, white and blue has moved,
Troy Brown hauls it in. History repeats
and one small man from South Dakota
bolts it through the bright uprights! Redemption,
thy name is Adam. Pandemonium
knows no bounds in Houston; and justice in
New England. If no World Series comes to
Boston, let two Super Bowls in three years
suffice to heal the psychic wounds. All's well
that ends well.

THE END.

— Joshua Adams (joshua at uchicago dot edu)

— graphic by Derek Evernden (derek@ocellus.net)