Friday, December 28, 2012

The Woman who Could Not Swallow




Daniel introduced his wife as 'Baroness Cathleen de Varennes'.

"Where do we go?" she demanded.

I led her, with Daniel, down the hall. "Do you want breakfast? You must be starved. Perhaps you are tired and want to see your bedroom."

I had been told she was a young woman, but she looked ancient. The bones of her skull loomed beneath a sickly parchment.

Daniel threw her bag at the foot of the bed, then headed back to the drawing room to use the phone.  The Baroness kept talking.

"I can't swallow. The last time I actually swallowed a piece of food was in 1979. Solid food doesn't go down. My esophagus is almost closed shut."

I stood there.

"It is equally very difficult for me to swallow liquids. That's why I like them hot. Very, very hot. And sweet. You can put the entire box of sugar in my coffee if you like. It helps it to go down. Of course if I have liquids too hot, too often, that's not good either. It cooks my throat, or can start a cancer.

"The muscle to my stomach is, how do you say, lame? It can't close. The juices from my stomach come up and starts all sorts of problems.

"If I had a lame leg I would knock on it and comment on how well it is carved. It is no problem for me. Yes, I lost quite a bit of weight. I was eating ice cream and sugar and butter in an effort to keep my weight up but eventually my stomach wouldn't process it anymore and my heartbeat became slow with all the cholesterol."

The Baroness' hair lies in patchy strands on a bald scalp. The long strands are so carefully curled over her temples. There are no curves to her, though it is possible to see that she was once attractive. Her front teeth seem at first so perfect, until one notices they are exactly alike, the same color and shape, gums all of a piece. All are false.

Daniel is a young man. I know him to be the same age as Bailey, though he has put on a lot of weight. I asked him about work.

"Well, I haven't been indicted," he said, referring to the recent crackdowns on investment bankers for insider trading.

"Those SEC boys are damn clever. The crooks get away by spilling  beans on the others. The accomplices, those that provide information, have the book thrown at them. It's awful."

I wondered if Daniel saw himself as an accomplice or a crook. He's a survivor, he married the Baroness. How long before he was alone with her title, and family land back in Hungary.

"We have a party this evening we have to go to," Daniel lamented.

Something they had to do to keep up appearances, to please the Baroness. Possibly it was a gathering he anticipated, but made seem like a kind of duty..

"That little party", Bailey said, was a do, at Maxim's. Bailey was miffed. He hadn't been invited.

I agreed, it is poor form not to invite one's host.

I didn't need to see the inside of Maxim's. I had visited once, paid for by a lavish Arab who was entertaining Miss India. I got bored, ate, drank too much, then walked home.

The Baroness foraged in her bag, then brought out a bottle of Pálinka, a distilled liqour from the steppes of Hungary. "This is for Monsieur Bailey."

It had a peculiar royal crest on it, one with a bent cross at the tip. Maybe she called the bottle Slivovitz, no matter. She'll give it to Bailey. Then he'll put it on his silver tray next to the Gran Marnier and Cherry Herring.


Saturday, December 22, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XXIII





I'd respect him, "You'll observe."
Granddad then said:
    "Whose saucy women will phone."
Come Brother, improve, take our string.
A crazy romance enacts
    guests who stood their freedom.

Doctor to your nanny: "See MP anyone?"
Rainbow fears I'm pressing.
    Gal, I'll soon elevate anger.

How a brother chose education.
Question Hell, part the opaque yard.
   Could dead men act through night energy?
Humidity gives notorious skirt to think or pick progress,
    Your sister destroys a clever brother.

Disorder is green passion,
That one is endowed,
    Hey, your canvas phobia pains me.

Daughter, through romance, a hollow crowd stunk.
Yes, I know students came to capture some smoke.
In truth I must say how much I risked in metal.
   Paint my differences.

"Fiery mother of heaven,
    we'll know you soon."
Bird go out, sculpt him blind.
Tell us, is delight like an almost always better, me.
    Handle it, is she free?

Young babe, demand when we make deep sky.
    Model and handle a reverse character.
Obsession resists denial.
Ebb our angry mess, like a pre-teen miss,

Know how strange!
Then it says, "I approach",
   The others stand for fun.

"Good, on Fridays we can hear."



Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 
38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61
 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Sunday, December 16, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XXII





Narayan, Heaven sees your muddle.
   There's a key opportunity, beside my moon.
You who belly dance and surf,
Faithful instrument,
   when I'm passionate - ride a simple toy.
   Walk, and take her home,

See if one marvelous breath relates
    how the faithful gave sense.
Choose a sad torpid companion.
Perform the clean thought,
    a beautiful glorious river does need to storm.

They'd investigate and lead her into society.
    Can the blind phone, fiddle, scratch?
Companion, respect my space.
   She acts. A pathetic parasite, envies, eyes music,
   esteems marriage as art.

Film my ass, you can use it until,
My aesthetic, a blue psychedelic Mother,
    forgets you're the model husband.
Smoke this fool.
We'll question our raw care,
    beneath more empty music.

She senses the observations, more seen by youth.
Never composes,
    lies looking for an angry wild howl.
Clean sex and fast romance was the drug.
Feel clever, through freedom about death.

Friday. The dead howl by then.
Take from my milky soft and faithful passion,
Fast, Write, Draw. 
Use this to progress.
    My perfect sound is still ugly.

Come, lost infant
    call for attachment at the mouth,
    Good character destroys what won't give us night.

Ink scars the mean street.
We break finger music,
    balanced through our great film.


Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 
38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61
 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XXI





Help me, the more I look,
 I see mountains on Crete,
    a brother, dead or interred, by obsession.

Death is at me again,
Knowing Heaven, sculptures never disagree.
    Sensitive aesthetics amuse them.
Father, please help,
    her wasted parts are glass deep.

Oh then good God, are you empty?
My mind is in heaven,
     I almost question the angel sound of home.

Paint impulsively, for a show.
Get up, then kiss, as rivers do a storm.
Our ode is symbol, 
    try to take her strength.

As Water, I Am Surreal.
Wasted, I perform related mental fixations,
    I'm nerved at how you trod up.

Say marrying has trouble,
I understand but why hate?
    Draw me for mad, soon you'll run free.

Question the money subject.
Life rules her raging health.
A vile fellow around pure life.
Instruments that feel, see you're a tourist.

Cuddle your angel,.
Get to know our obscure grip.
Mother is thy Peace, find more music,
    What glitters Girl? 

Sexy woman, use sanguine perfume to calm the crazy leader.
Some party whores always show.
Want a dust mountain?
Pain to scale, with the edge, give ideas.
     Live from love, free thought . . .

Brother, present time-outs as awesome wild pain.
Life is inclusive,  use color above.
     Morning delights start out sweet.

I see childhood's best faithful young companion,
     questioned about that awesome studio.
Daze, then a period.
Marry please, a vintage favorite.
      Stand, and be all danced.


Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 
38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61
 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Friday, November 2, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XX




Infant angel, empty the gate, with sound.
See in front of you, your absurd risks,
    dazzled by a silent crowd.

Process drunk opinions like money at death,
    ages ripped by an urchin's impression.
    Sweet problems make a life in strokes.

I wish life could clean out your absurd time.
   This will reach you . . .
Approach, through your studio.

Demand a fresh new deal.
Tap death, a dry drink.
   Freedom himself, wears a scratch gown.

I may ask them Father, if the period is up.
   To intimately see and discover.

She thinks about an opening.
Tries always to have the open idea,
   a chameleon who guts earth.

Since bad aesthetics surface in gravity.



Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 
38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61
 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XIX




Red smoke, Amen.
No better way is upon her. That's it.
       Lie to us in peace.
I must see to your sweet problems,
       spared delight which laugh even more.
Patience. Observe and balance every picture.

Above thought, I’m old.
I see and lick a grand river!
       Her brother won't lose his grip.

Your giddy impression influences every rigid form.
Kiss it always.
       a deep paragon turned round.
Relate to me, how a dirty canvas comes
       to have him fast,
I feel a subject - you.

Important discovery, did our minds span opportunity?
       Marry whomever you choose, not impressed.
I am which sculpts,
       after cunning delight,

Thought appears pregnant, of that I'm sure.
      So many, I see canvases speak of fresh life.

Make electric pictures.
The model wants luscious delusions.
       Walk my favorite! Have clever respect.
You'll finger good society.
       Always mean serious heart.
       Sculpt the glorious smear.

Two. Cuddle and never use pride.
Forever observe our grand space.
       Act crazy, trotting through these sculptures.
Mister please, have her money.

That clean fun when found, blocks
       I see your LP to your East, and green water.
Use the site, mellifluous talk on dating.
       Already he needs an enormous break.

Couplets here speak out.



Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 
38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61
 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XVIII




Tell Joy she looms around angels.
 . . . No grim Dionysus . . . disco reveries.
Merciful blue scriptures read as a song of anguish.

Icy laughs if you can see.
 . . . I would have thought to envy the gate,
 . . . delved above, scratched, or chiseled on canvas.
Dazzle, pressured on, we live dirty.
Why men must confront our Saturday affair,
 . . . a key opportunity beside my moon.

My fear, if it is a miss, observes,
Walk Mama, silhouette your freedom!
Now share, a negative angry angel!
 . . . (Need our sculpture worry?
They said rivalry wasted dreams.)
 . . . Here, when filmed wild, it's sad,
Daddy needs good smoke.

I endeavor to choose an old soft ritual.
 . . . On Crete, a Mother of film walks,
 . . . they have lost patience.
Come obsessive Partner, it shows your set.
" . . . I'm another - what completes?
"I have form, obdurate metaphor!"

Please believe we can't go there,
Above our faith in brains, raw partner,
 . . . Care strokes best.
Make a thin grass opinion,
Mounted metaphor.
 . . . Come Sir, try some moon child.



Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 
38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61
 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XVI




Strength secures your last thought,
     So model me, stop the lust party,
Your body blossoms through ruin.

Know and compose,
     a street's electric instrument passion.
A sharp find was a mellifluous Hawaiian water bird.

Live bold, and laugh as I make impressions.
Dying knows commonly-sensed water,
Life energy was modeled blue, 
     sculpted red, as a song of anguish.

Take all, confront absurd risk.
     Who thinks sweet, with a favorite movie?
     The surface was almost concrete.
Aware of him, this made a mess

Share, don't throw our water, then junk wood, to think clever.
Give me your wild Kate, on your next day home.

He's the husband of an Angel,
     Young babe, demand when we make deep sky.

Can I question my wife?
Who thinks, how solutions
     would even write on empty shards?
Or choose a straight water ritual.

Come you need caution.
     I'll read about her denial, 
          for a psychedelic drug.

The mare above him cares.





Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 
38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61
 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Song of 81 Poems, XVII



See in beauty those brassy sounds, 
     standing by her sculpture.
It draws a companion's curious color,
    To care about cunning trouble.
Go to where dead skulls appear, share songs,
    paint language, heal a tree.

The Muse saw late energy,
     drunken styles were back up,
Health learned Death wanted in.
     Mother has a crush on your bold friend!

Think of space dust, growing a new mind.
Metaphor is light, a shame you missed our broken secret.

Honey, stop the cymbal rhythms.
I sense water tea.
    Her old man's looking sharp.
Smoking, soon dark despair will laugh.
     and famously, trash bad wood.

Father learned of inclusive dark earth.
    Fridays are so arid, 
We smoked in manic diversity.
   Stick around, say ohm.


Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 
38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61
 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Monday, October 22, 2012

Young Headed



Young headed . . . Sleep my mate, innocent . . .
Sculpt your glorious peace.
Feel music, art that yet chants a fresh imagination.
I am feeling better.
Give chameleon strength to my electric understanding.

Will I buckle? Almost . . .
Me, can I call? Be ours.
Know how important cuts emulate character
To scream this before,
You picture no crowd above . . .
Love notable nature, how surreal blindness, . . . gives music.
We have come . . . she ends the question.
Are you feeling better notorious creature?
A sun rainbow!

The impulse is soft in looking spotted
It affects, and breaks a line of weed.

Poster of my studio's raging dreams,
How big will be patience in my clever life?
Go experiment like a bird!
Appear calm, luxurious. Joy.

Despair observation, Play with solution
Mean stranger, periods are our brain fight!
Anger is some key, in solvent language
Movies aren't seeing sane,
Idols more for dirty use.
Children can run, should the monkey have come?
Rude girl-faced serpent,
Curious from grand hair!
Endless obsessive sex, not great passion,
Cramps our communal thought.

Nude, we can buy the tinker a hollow piece,
And reach aesthetic cleanliness.
Like glitter would shriek,
. . . a degenerate show.

Friday February 15, 2008, with Niki Notarile, 55, 56, 57


-:-

  The Muse Poems:

   1  2   3   4  5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

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