Saturday, September 16, 2017
Secret Amour
more important than the person.
Delilah puts forth a list of three.
Hortense asserts that all smell, but
Del quickly attributes that to Irish
Spring Deodorant!
Hortense’s old dance partner,
and present husband
(team of Northy and Hortsy)
snorts “Melody, huh? Be like
dipping your wick in ice cubes!”
(Pretty Patter and Dizzy Dancing!)
Did a stumbling Buck and Wing,
then, for irony.
(New York and Paris!)
Left him scarlet!
(PARIS, TEXAS THAT IS!!!!!)
Labels: friends, lover, New York, Paris, secret lpver, Show Business
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
Rich Is Better
His college partner did affect European Manners,
knife shoving food up the back of his fork.
This sort of fey behavior persisting, Clip moved
to actual Paris upon graduation. And onto women.
All in the American style: lazy, but genuinely
intellectual. Ate mostly baguette sandwiches.
An uncle supports him: “...my pissy little horror!”
An operative of the Paris-Dusseldorf agency
Confidential Assist Skypes him yearly at his
Wall Street office.
“An Arab woman moved in!”
“I didn’t hear that.”
“Black as shoe polish.”
“That neither!”
Labels: Arab, ethnic prejudice, Paris, rich, sexuality, wealth, Woman
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Minds
Even after the internet, Moke and Kippy sent
weekly letters.
Lulu and Racker kept them in Birkenstock
boxes in the cavernous attic.
They had inherited the monster of a house,
and crack many jokes about filling it up,
but no possibility there.
When winter came, they closed most of the
rooms off, but Racker said he enjoyed going
into one or another to think. Air like ice
evidentially conducive to such.
When the correspondents moved to Paris, they
missed a couple of beats. Kippy started writing
poems in French––she had taught it at Central
High—and Moke started painting again.
He did send his efforts via the net. Fetching
neighborhood scenes, crusty bistros and the like,
which inexplicably acquired jarring pop elements
after a couple of years.
Then, all shape and color, with not much fathomable.
Now, just color.
I like them, but don’t know why.
For some reason, it becomes necessary to visit a
mountain monastery celebrating its five-hundredth
anniversary.
Well, some reason: She thinking of writing their
Gregorian Chants into secular poetry.
Oh well, I couldn’t see the future in that, but that’s
just me!
At any rate, their bus went through a barricade
in a rain storm and plunged...! well, all died.
Lulu and Racker held a memorial in the huge house
and we’re reading from the letters by candlelight very
nearly horizontal in the wind. Two things strike me.
They had been interested in virtually everything.
And! They had a Romance! From Childhood till they
sensed each other’s breathing.
Until it stopped.
But we all knew theirs was an ideal out of reach. End of
our particular stories in that regard! Two exs studied me
as the flames resumed upwardly.
Anyway, the lovers wanted their ashes in “a beautiful,
natural place,” and her brother in Virginia volunteered his
beaver pond.
I sent him my video of the service here. That had been a
friends’ deal; the beaver pond a family one. Except for
Lulu and Racker. They’re invited. Hey! Every family’s
different.
They didn’t want to leave Brusque at the vet. An old
little Jack Russell gentleman, if still frenetic. So I came
over and took care of him in their three-day absence.
Lulu had moved the boxes of letters to a special alcove
under the eaves. I wandered up there during a blizzard.
Blessedly alone, Brusque afraid of the attic.
Sorry to disappoint, but the wind prevented my hearing
anything else, if the lovers intimated to one another.
They did in a dream the next week. He said “It’s cold!”
And she, “Never! with you.”
So? Was the Wind translated then, as Romantics would
have it?
I say just the wind. My twisted mind, the rest.
Labels: art, Death of Lovers, friends, ghosts, letters, painting, Paris, poetry, Romance
Friday, January 30, 2015
-What's it like to be so so immensely rich?
-You've known me since kids, and a question like that?
Like from some cheap website!
-I'm curious sometimes. But haven't felt free to ask.
-You're free to say or do anything? How can I control you?
-Through that coal-black dude looks like a wall, watching
us while pretending not to.
-A gentle giant.
-I'm sure. And if I did a thing we did as kids assing around...
like grab that pen from that threadbare flannel shirt pocket...?
-He'd be all over you like a cheap suit!
-Being constantly watched! Jesus! Bodyguards!
-Used to it. And hate it. Both.
-Get death threats?
-Daily, I suppose. They don't tell me.
-Can you ever get alone?
-In the inner portions of the island. The bad guys can’t get
through the cameras on the perimeters.
-Owning an island. Like to try that!
-As everything, tremendous responsibility! Besides I don't
own it entirely. There's that resort.
-Felicity Blot? Who the hell ever heard of such a name?
-Lady author, Victorian times, pen and ink, and thus...
-The modern name is Fuck-a-Lot. Did you know that?
-No, I didn't.
-Another rich dude parks the crazy wife at Bide-a-Bit, and
then breaks in the new secretary there. A giggler!
-Whatever. I can’t supervise the morality there.
-Bullshit! You own the resort too!
-I can't say that I do.
-Yeah, for tax purposes--where you're a criminal, really.
-True, but a legal one.
-How can you live with yourself?
-Rather easily when it's only me.
-Meeting in Paris apartment next, according to
Wall Street Journal. Girl in every port sort of thing?
-All business. Drenched in business.
-And scaring the shit outa the guys in suits, I'll bet.
-A regrettable part, always.
-You really are a prick after all's said and done!
-Guilty. But the only way I keep things in line.
-Then London? Rio?
-Same show. Thence back to island.
-Where the female employees of the resort constitute a harem.
-I only can handle one at a time!
-Life is mostly an immense cramp in the balls for you, but it
has, yes?, its compensations?
-Love that last word!
Labels: friendship, guys in suits, harem, island, London, Paris, protection, resort, Rio, tax avoidance, tax fraud, wealthy, women, WSJ
