The Running of the Bulls

She had watched the men running

At Pamplona

She had pursed her lips at their

Palpable fear

Women frown at the sexual contradiction, the beast chasing the man

At least the ones who are tired of sex.

 

Those who still warm to a touch on a nipple

Sigh

And accept both the beast and the man.

 

Zelda took a shower in the middle of the afternoon

She had dreamed of making love in the heat behind the shades

Of a fan-driven hotel in Merida.

It was only a dream.

Even so, trickles of sweat formed between her thighs and at the small of her back as she

Remembered the dream

 

She ordered a martini and took it to the balcony

To watch the bulls.

Zelda not on the highway

She remembers

Slow dancing before the mirror in her

Atelier.

She holds the negligee before her like a shield

That will protect her from the truth.

 

She was in a room

In a pension and

Her lover

Had faded off like the line in a divided highway

At night

As the

Battery died.

 

No need to put the negligee on

No one there

From the Grave, or: Too many zombies

Pop pop

Little popping sounds of  rain on my windowsill

Keep me company

Along with Otis.

 

Otis takes care of me when Zelda is away.

His face is very demonstrative

When I’m being stupid his mouth turns down and his eyes are cold

When I use my brain to better advantage he grins

It took me ages to realize that one side of his china face goes down and the other up

Which is a blessing because now

Depending on my mood

 I can turn him and receive

Confirmation.

 

Zelda has been gone about a year.

She left to avoid watching me slowly pass away it’s

Not like her to give up but I was immoveable

On the barstool

A feast of agony

Gorging on pain

Awash in cocktail seas

I ate nothing but salt and

Drank nothing but whiskey

For days, or was it months?

And still I berate my fate as though she were here to listen

As though the bar were still open

As though I were still alive.

 

 

The Desert

 

The wet sand the brown sand

The white sand and now the inundating black sand

Rougher, coarser, empty of shells

The clear water the water filled with plankton and small fish roiling

The water

The shells

Usually cats paws and scallops not so many turkey wings

Now

The blue heron the cloud of ibis the

Occasional skimmer scooping the tide

The plover eyes alight eyes afright

As I walk past stepping carefully between

Sharp objects.

This is my other world

My Florida. Once my refuge

Now I look unseeing at the pelican cruising my waters I

Stare at the ocean unaware of the dolphin

I stare at the ground wishing

For release.

Thus is my love wasted.

Shirley V.

 

She is my youth and my old age

Not the in-between

She is the adventure the frustration the longing the questioning

Not the contentment peace joy in knowing you’re doing the

Right thing

The alpha and the omega the

Spring flower years and the twilight

For the first time I see the connection

 

The middle is not empty but too full

For remorse for retrospection

For revolution

 

The beginning..ah! We shall turn the world over

Upright the wrongs

The end…ah! We shall turn the world over and

Make it in our own image

 

Shirley you are one silly bitch.

Zelda ReTurns

She arrives as usual in a fur coat

Sable I think

Tosses it to the hat check girl

Along with her Tiparillos, which are no longer acceptable

She stops

Pulls a lipstick from her tiny clutch

Presses it to her carmine lips

Pouts

And follows Germaine to her usual table.

At least this is how I remember it.

Zelda is no longer the center of attention. But

Only because the attention is on lesser things.

When did we wobble away from the diamond?

Why have we settled for the simulated topaz?

How could Georges not be there

Dancing in attendance?

Where is the music

The white tie

The tails

The rhythm?

Zelda settles gracefully at my table.

You're mouldering little one.

The world has not changed.

Elegance is in the mind.

The little people have never acquired the knack and will never

Be able to strip us of it.

Elegance isn't a matter of giving but of receiving.

It is a generosity of spirit that embraces the outliers, the undertakers, the fishmongers

Even the plumbers

And knows them to be interesting because they are human.

Elegance even allows the poor blighters who wave the banner of elegance in defiance of the truth

To exist.

So said Zelda

Before her first sip.

You can imagine what she had to say after the second.