the only emperor

Back in November, I found this poem in a book which represented the (somewhat OCD) owner's attempt at validating a shelf full of crappy paperbacks and Complete Idiot's Guides Tos.
I opened it with no small amount of English Major hubris, but was quickly put back in my place by Wallace Stevens within:

"The Emperor of Ice Cream"

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal.
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

2 months later, I've worked it out as best I can independently work through anything W. Stevens. Don't Be Discouraged By Reality, for it is Reality that bites your face while you walk to the bus in the morning! and it is Reality that snuggles you into a sleeping bag beneath a starry, summer night. Carpe Diem! even if it seems to be little more than a lightly used paper towel and the finding of 2 dollars in your coat pocket.

2 months later, the result of my dwelling on this poem (and wanting to be the emperor of ice cream) is that I joined Blogger.