There are times when humanity’s quest for greatness seems entirely shortsighted. Individuals can either accomplish and contribute, or choose not to. Confronted with unassuming hyperbole, one can only sit back and admire the splendor of inspiration in action. I have experienced the pleasure of knowing one of the great literary minds of our generation, the unnecessarily humble Burke McCray.
My first encounter with Mr. McCray was at college. In the then-fetid Gamma-Omicron chapter house of Kappa Sigma, Burke’s literary fires were stewed by the dismal alcohol- and drug-crazed actions and ramblings of the residents. McCray was unshaken, even solidified, by this seeming lunacy in his midst. Though many others insisted on the spotlight, Burke was always there, learning, laughing, loving. Living. Quietly, he was building the bedrock of his literary career.
Burke often told me, “I know I will win the Nobel Prize, but I can’t decide if I prefer Mathematics or Literature.” This initially startled me on many levels, but his multi-faceted and well-honed talents still lacked focus. The Maths continue to pay the bills for Mr. McCray, but it is long past due that someone state a case for the redirection of the rest of his life’s efforts. There, I said it: Burke McCray, it is time for you to pour yourself back into your poetry. You owe this debt of your talents to society.
While his peers were out on a near-nightly basis chasing the ladies around town at the local pubs, McCray was resolutely focused on more important endeavors. Not the Maths he had long-since conquered and continues to contribute to daily, and certainly not the writing—Burke has been known to mull and create his masterpieces in their entirely, at one setting—he simply doesn’t have the time for what he considers pure subjectivity. This focus that drove young McCray was simple: He strove daily to have the best ass anyone had ever seen.
This complex dichotomy of focus is a stunning example of the tormented genius lying so long dormant underneath his logical exterior. Inside, a burning desire of posterior greatness still taunts his sanity. Just last summer on the way to the golf course, Burke felt compelled to ask me, “Does my ass look too big in these shorts?”
I had just enough confidence in my sexuality and superior pride in the Brilliance of his middle-aged ass to honestly answer him, “You and I both know you’ve still got the best ass I’ve ever seen. Stop it. Just stop...” I knew the high-stakes nature of Burke’s true passion. If he even has a hint of thought that his ass is going downhill, he will produce nothing but morbid depression, lifelong disappointment, and emotional impotence.
Yes, it’s that important.
Certainly, any fool can come up with a Haiku. Strictly speaking, their topic is limited by definition to nature. However, in the early nineties, a renegade troop of avant-garde haikuists were staking residence in Lawrence. By nearly any measure, 1992 Lawrence was the renegade haiku capital of the free world. (A long-since vanquished group from the Shansi Region of China was violently banished to Tibet in that awful winter of 1993. The “Broken Flower Revolution” would have to wait for another daring generation.) Where once peaceful and soothing five-seven-fives lined our conventional literary guides, these young souls focused on jagged and cutting-edge works delving in to nearly every form of the human experience.
McCray stayed above this fray. Many whiskey-soaked nights with our notebooks and pens of our little club would not be suffered by Burke. “I’m going to the gym. Just me and my Brilliance. I’ll look over what you guys come up with in the morning,” he would tell the aspiring artists. (ed. Note: This remark above is not overt narcissism. The ever humble McCray attempted to patent his own ass under the catchy trade name “Brilliance” in 1991. He has since softened his efforts to monopolize usage of the word brilliance, in addition to the well formed asses on third parties, focusing again solely on his own ass. The name stuck.)
If one of the young authors could impress McCray, a publishing contract was almost sure to follow. He’d been (and remains) highly solicited by the great publishing houses of the day, and had many contacts in the industry. To this day, the shrewd negotiator McCray has left entirely unpublished the collected volumes of his works. I asked when he was planning on a compilation, and he told me quite bluntly last year, “I’m waiting to select the right charity for the proceeds.” His social consciousness and utter selflessness delineate starkly his asscination, and paints an unsettling portrait of McCray: The most elusive and baffling artist living today.
At last summers’ golf outing, I asked McCray if he was still baking. He won the 1990 & 1991 KU Pastryfests going away. His croissants ruled the roost among Jayhawks early in his collegiate career, but he became bored with this endeavor when he discovered his passion for highly selective muscle toning. Furthermore, the rest of the students on campus still had a chance at the competition once he dropped out, saving Pastryfest from certain destruction. His efforts so monopolized the affairs of ’90 and ’91 there was legitimate concern that the entrant pool would be completely depleted by any further competitive baking on his part. So he stopped. Just like that.
But he still, to this day, takes enormous pride in his cakes. A two-layer affair sprinkled liberally with gold leaf, methamphetamine, and whipped cream cleared the award banquet in ’90, while in ’91 his “Puffydoughs” took home the prize. (Burke’s pet name for his remarkably popular jelly-filled doughnuts laced with crack cocaine.) Though he never partook of his award-winning creations, one could not discount the positive effects of the Puffydoughs, or the ravenous cravings of fans thereof. “I started making them as a specialty order,” McCray explained to me the night of the ’91 award banquet. “I just give the people what they want.” Well, Burke, it’s time to walk the walk. The public demands more poetry.
That same little group of Avant-Garde Haikuists (AGH to those in the know) was having difficulties during that long winter of 1992. Restless and lacking focus, they knew their group would either grow or die. The pressures of maintaining academic schedules, social activities and the literary requirements were taking its toll on the AGH. It was suggested during one of these late night meetings that a contest, similar to the art competition staged by the AGA in 1991 could serve as a proper model to refocus the group. We were struggling, and we knew it. Ever the humanist, McCray entered the singular and now-famous masterpiece that permanently chiseled his name at the apex of any list of Great American Poets:
“My ass is so soft.
It reminds me of Bundt cake.
God, I love Bundt cake.”
Predictably, this entry proved to be the demise of the AGH. Why even bother anymore? We had been blinded by McCray’s illumination of several inalienable truths. This man who had so successfully walked the line between “too firm” and “not enough cushion” for his entire life summed up the drive of his entire personal experience. This compelling struggle of a man so burdened by multiple greatnesses is perfectly expressed in these immortally structured three lines. Many of us who have been in the shadow of McCray’s greatness for so long are now left wondering why the reluctant Burke McCray feels the continuing need to shield the public from the remainder of his collection.
Symbolically, I waited until the seventeenth hole of our golf outing to ask Burke the question that has been on our collective minds for a score of years. “Tell me what you write about, Burke.” As we all know by now, McCray’s only public work remains the popularly titled “Me, My Ass, and I” (McCray thought titling his work was pretentious, but the fragments of the AGH simply referred to the Brilliance as MMAI. Sadly, what was left of the AGH was further splintered in 1993 by MMAAI apologists and the defiant MMAaI societies.)
“I write about my butt,” he said. I am unashamed to say I had tears welling in my eyes anticipating what I had hoped was still the case after so many years. I finally broke down, and he brought me back from my abyss with a warm embrace.
Bawling, I blathered, “What else is there? Tell me you haven’t changed?”
“You know I wouldn’t do that. A man has to have focus in today’s world,” he explained, untucking his shirt. He turned away from me and lifted his polo halfway up his back. Sure as shit, Burke had commissioned on his back’s canvas an elegantly crafted tramp stamp of a meticulously formed Bundt cake. A pair of cupid’s quivers at the base of the cake imprint suggested arrows directed at each cheek. “Would you like to see the rest of it?” he asked. Reassured at the purity of this fantastic artist’s vision, I had seen quite enough.
Not since collegiate showers had I been so close to Burke’s ass. Sure, he’s settling down a bit. The cakes and pastries he prepares for his family today are practically devoid of narcotics. The haikus have become tamer over the years. Reverence of his own ass and the toils spent creating this personal Brilliance still rule his life. But today, I can see he’s matured so much as a man, and quite obviously, as an Assist.
The time has come, Mr. McCray. Please, we beg of you, share the rest of your collected works. The public demands it. Your ass deserves it.
mr. mcray's mcrazy ass got me through ap calc...thank you wherever you are
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