Sunday, August 30, 2015
Still Moans in the Folklore
In the village we say
we thread our way
to death.
With the looms, of course,
but, too, the paths above
devouring seas. One
winter, a lovesick black-
smith fled his forge
for their silver cold.
As children we played
stern games on
the same bluff, and
two lost together. “Jeremy and
Lorna” the bobbing wreath
denotes yearly. Green in
green water. A woman falls,
but, well, we have our doubts as
her husband drinks him-
self to terminal rout thereafter.
Next year, two women, hand
in hand. A modern end.
The tourists still come for
the fabrics. And the stories.
We grow unsure. Perhaps lat-
ter from another village? We’d
encourage anyone to fasten
to them. Cloth, increasingly
not as good, passes.
Labels: bluff, cloth, death, drowning, fabric, folklore, murder, story, suicide, village
Thursday, January 01, 2015
The Village
“Is This Short Enough?"
When wife Gemma left to start a software shop in Seattle--
relying on the Old Man's money--Rick at sixes and sevens.
A heat wave struck the village and he cut down some old jeans,
modeling them for Marco, buddy.
"You went too far, and the effect is genital. Trying to attract boys?"
"Neither boys or girls. Just...be cool."
"Forever beyond you. Listen! you better get moving! Unless you
want to die an unrequited fairy in this nondescript burg."
The words stung so, he began dating the Postmistress, a stump
enamored of Hollywood romantic comedies of the thirties,
which they watched.
And watched.
Labels: divorce, fairy, friendship, genital, loneliness, relationship, romantic comedy, separation, village, village life
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Cycling
“The man in the village knows bikes. We’ll throw it into
the Range Rover in the morning. He’s a locksmith
but there’s adequate overlap, so I understand.
I’ve phoned your parents and you have their
permission to stay the night.
I think we’ve both done a first-rate job
with your injuries. I won’t call the doctor.
He has gotten old and he panics. He’d insist
on hospital, which is nonsense.
Maria is ironing pajamas. You’ll swim in them but...
more champagne?
We’ll also look at that spot which tossed you. If you’re
to sue, make haste! My wife vows to leave nothing.
Now please stop looking guarded! I’m not
The Sheik of Araby.
(sings)
At night when you’re asleep
Into your tent I’ll creep.”
They both laugh. Except he was, and did.
Now she’s the new wife but without a hyphen
in her name. More modern, has kept her own.
The bike hangs on the garage wall, still unrepaired.
A pinch of her gross fat indicates to her it must
be made roadworthy.
But the new man in the village is retired as a Trek mechanic from The Tour de France. He wants to
fit her to a Domane. Says her dinged machine
worth five hundred towards it.
“Get it! Do!' husband exclaims. "Then you’ll
be able once more to peddle your ass
around the village!”
They laugh.
Labels: bicycle, divorce, marriage, Trek, village
