If These 'Dolls' Could Talk, No.2

                              IF THESE 'DOLLS' COULD TALK
                                              Number Two

                                         Dramatis Personae

               JESUS H. CHRIST, Messianic Cult of Personality Icon
                    SIGMUND FREUD, Infamous Psychoanalyst

                
                                     "Hallo!"                   "Wassup?!"


                                       Subject: JESUS H. CHRIST


JESUS H. CHRIST (sighs): Figures it'd be about me. Again.

SIGMUND FREUD: What, is that a bad thing?

JHC: Well, sometimes, sometimes not. The thing, Sig, for me, is that when you're Jesus Christ, 'Messianic Cult of Personality Icon', apparently, you really can't be anyone else, right? It can get tedious sometimes.

SF: Who else would you want to be?

JHC: Just a regular slob, I guess. Just a stranger on a bus trying to make his way home.

SF: Ach, I love that song!

JHC: Yeah, yeah, so do I! It's awesome, right? (sighs again) But certain people...

SF: Oh, don't sweat 'em, Jay.

JHC: No, no, I don't. So what makes you so "infamous", Sig?

SF: My Penis Envy theory, for one thing. Women don't have 'em but really really want 'em.

JHC: Uhh, you sure about that?

SF: Absolutely ja.

JHC (snarkily): So do men have Breast Envy?

SF: No idea. We could discuss it further but should we perhaps begin the session now?

JHC: Yeah, I guess so.

SF: First I really need to ask, what was that back at Weihnachtszeit? That thing you said?

JHC: What?

SF: "Totes wrong-o, dudes." Remember that?

JHC: Of course, I remember everything. But hey, that was just my way of tryin' to connect with the young shorties, knowwhumsayin'? For shizzle, Big Sig!

SF: Oh, ja, uh, Cray Jay. I'm hep to your jive, mein Mann. Really. Just please don't do it ever again.

JHC: I won't if you won't. "Cray Jay"? What the hell?

SF: Can we just sit now? Or try to?

JHC: I'll lie down on this sofa, though I barely-oof!-can in all my gloriously robed bulkiness here, but you should probably stand.

SF: Why would you say-(examines his body)-ach, that's right. Can't bend my limbs.

JHC: My condolences, Sig. Shall we begin the talking cure? (coughs)

SF: Ja, ja. So what is the starting point here? The Bible?

JHC (excitedly): Hey, yeah! That book is something else, isn't it?

SF: It is? I mean, of course.

JHC: Yeah! It's concise, intelligible, readable, oh, so fascinating, and hey, I know who actually wrote it!

SF: Those are some quite, um, interesting adjectives to describe the Holy Bible.

JHC: The Holy B-? Oh, I thought you meant-oohh...n-no, uh, no, forget I mentioned it.

SF (pause): O-kay. Hmm. (to himself) Wish I had a verdammt notebook!

JHC: It'll all be on the record, Sig, trust me.

SF: But if you didn't mean that book then-

JHC: Just move on for now. Please.

SF: All right. Your mother-

JHC (with sudden melodramatic vehemence): HOW DARE YOU, SIR!!! MY MOTHER WAS A SAINT!!!

SF (slightly taken aback): Uh, I didn't-

JHC (chuckling): I know. Sorry about that. But no, she was great. Joseph, too. Poor guy doesn't get enough credit. Should've made him an honorary disciple.

SF: Very nice. You were a good son. But if I may return to the Bible for a moment-

JHC: I think, at most, all you need to know or study from that book, in order to lead a goodly, pious, peaceful, sucking up, I mean God-pleasing, anal-tight sort of life is to abide by what's written in the Beatitudes and the Sermon on the Mount. At most. And mean it. If that's your thing, that is. Most everything else is just stories. That may not be what many, or even you, Sig, want to hear from me, but that's my own belief.

SF: So-

JHC: Simplify, simplify: my motto. Bread without the circuses, no bells and whistles...signs and wonders.

SF: Interesting. So what's your simpler version of the most popular and widely read, interpreted and, oh yes, bloodily battled over book in the Western hemisphere?

JHC: Simple. Be excellent to each other, and party on, dudes. That's it.

SF: Wow.

JHC: That was mine before Bill and Ted's, y'know.

SF: No, it wasn't.

JHC: No, it wasn't. But shall I go on even though you may be shocked by what I may say, Sig?

SF (chuckles): You never shock me, Jay. Only surprise. But if I may ask, and I should have before, how deep down into the well of your psyche do you want to plumb today? About the pleasures and pains of demigod-hood? Torture? Crucifixion? Resurrection?

JHC: No. (pause) None of that really happened to me, by the way.

SF: It-really?

JHC: Why would it? It's horrible and cruel! A new covenant! Pah! And just for tabula rasa's sake! What's called 'sin' is really just human nature, by the way. What would it have been for? The chance to be a so-called good and faithful servant-good lord, to do what?-sing? worship me 24/7? wash my feet? iron my robes? polish my nimbi? (don't got none!) or all the angels' nimbi or some crazy shit like that?-in some blissful, gauzy, Edenic paradise, and that's how it happens?! No! Wondrous eternal life where there apparently hadn't been before, even though a loving, merciful God could have created it that way from the very fucking beginning of the Universe, without the stark fear of hell to contend with?! Ucchh!  No, Sig, I'm not that, I'm not the naked, stricken, tortured Christ of that ugly symbol. Don't believe the hype. Also I lied about Mary and Joseph earlier.

SF: I see. So what did happen to you?

JHC: Oh, I was created with plastic and paint in a toy factory, just like you were, Sig. Just like all of our Box friends. We're DOLLS, dude, parent-less dolls! Didn't you know that about us?

SF: Aahh, ja. Ich hab' dass vergisst. Don't know how I'm speaking German, though.

JCH: Neither do I, to tell the truth.

SF: And it's 'dolls', Jay. (a bit sadly) 'Dolls.'

JHC: Or inaction action figures.

SF: Yeah, better. So your omnipotence is-

JHC: Nada.

SF: Wait, didn't you know about Dickens' mistress? What's her name, uhh, Ternan?

JHC (chortles): Sig, that's got nothing to do with omnipotence, that's just general knowledge. It probably wasn't, of course, once upon a time, but thanks to the caches of special history books I found under the desk it's one more tidbit I know that I hadn't before. Isn't that how you knew about it, Sig?

SF: Well, ja, but I didn't know that's how you knew!

JHC: It's true.

SF: So I guess that's how everyone else found out, ja? Other than ol' Boz, that is?

JHC: Mm-hmm. I still can't believe he didn't know.

SF: We ought to tell tell him. There's some really cool stuff under that desk.

JHC: Later. (whispering in a hushed voice, a la an 1800s prospector) But y'know, Siggy, I hear tell thar's a whole 'nother stash o' forbidden books secluded waaayy on top o' a mountain not far from hyere.

SF (incredulous): A mountain? Forbidden books?

                                           LO! THE MOUNTAIN!

JHC: Wull, no, tain't really a mountain, more'a really tall bookshelf that'd be like a mountain to us, y'see? But yeah, way up yonder, right up at the vurry top thar's a whole passel o' books that some folks'd, wull, probably burn all t' ashes long time ago.

SF (intrigued, plays along ): What'choo talkin' 'bout, Jesus?!

JHC (in normal voice, flatly): Uhh, no, Sig. Try again.

SF: Huh? Oh, right, right. Whut in th' Sam Hill gol danged blue blazes 'r' yew referrin' to, Jay? Books by who?

JHC: Much better. First, tho', yew gotta know thar's a big' ol' bronze Marty Luther ('cuz that's his name, y'see) head jest a-settin' dead center in th' middle o' them books. And wheee-ooooh, he shore is a big feller, tell yew what!

SF: Oh, good golly Molly sweet Mary Moses, Jay! Whut do he do?

JHC: Do? DO?! Why, Sig, he jest...he jest...well, he jest set there, really. Don't talk 'r move 'r nothin'.

SF: Oh. Aww. (suddenly suspicious) Wait jest a dern fool minnit here, Jay! How you even know that?

JHC (MLK): Because I've beeeen to the mountaintop, and I've seeeen...it...him...and I seen the books, too. I've seeen the Promised Land!

                                    BEHOLD! THE MOUNTAINTOP!

Music: 'Lo and Behold!' by Bob Dylan & The Band.
(No, don't listen to it now! Keep reading!)



SF: Mein Gott, Jay, are you trying to get people pissed at us?!

JHC (innocently): No. Why?

SF: It's just...ach, forget it. (back to the Old West) So who wrote them books, Jay?

JHC: Oh, ol' Tommy Paine, Bobby Ingersoll, Neale Donny Walsch, Julian the Apostate (if you can believe it!) and even Miss Hypatia of Alexandria!

SF: Wait, Hypatia? Thar warn't...dammit, none of her writings survived, Jay, as far as I know.

JHC (sadly): Yeahh, I'm actual fibbin' 'bout that, Jay. Sorry.

SF: They got destroyed in the Library, ja? (pause) And she was...

JHC: Yeah. (muttering darkly) Goddamned murdering Parabolani!!

SF: Ja, der verdammter scheisskopfen! Arschlochen! (takes a long pull on the fake plastic cigar wedged in his hand, sighs) Ja. (long pause) So...those books really exist?

JHC (still muttering): Yeah, they do.

SF: Amazing. (long pause) Umm, I hate to say this, Jay, but, um, I think...I think your hour's about up.

JHC (a bit surly): Oh? Were you counting the time?

SF: No, no, I only said "I think". But do you have anything more to say?

JHC: I do. (clears throat) I'm not Jesus Christ, obviously. No more than you're Sigmund Freud. I know Christ, whether he was a real or perhaps not really real person, is utilized in at least two ways by his believers - as a wide open hand of love, grace and charity, or a white-knuckled fist of hostility, scorn and judgment. I so prefer the former. (pause) Damn it, why, why can't it always be that way, Sig? Why hasn't it been? Not just for the Galileans but for every religion? Help the poor and sick, all the least of my brothers and sisters. Teach the world to sing in perfect harmony! Let the sunshine in! Smile on your brother, everybody get together! Try to love one another right now! And all that jazz.

SF (chuckles): Be excellent to each other!

JHC: Yeah, Sig! Let it be. Live in the now. Don't worry about heaven or hell. And just like Candide I say, dig your own garden. As far as I'm concerned there's no right or wrong path for anyone, so long as no one gets hurt. I especially mean that last part! First do no motherfucking harm! So yeah, believe what you want! Do as thou wilt! Indulge in the finer things in Life, but simplify, simplify, simplify!

SF (jubilant): Ja, moderation! Tell it, tell it! Amen! (suddenly remembers something) But wait, Jay..."Do as thou wilt?" Wasn't that-

JHC: So that, I think, is it for now, Sig. (lifts himself off of the sofa) Oof! Not any easier gettin' up!

SF: Good thing I just stood here, then.

JHC: I actually have a confession to make, Sig.

SF: Oh?

JHC: I never needed this session to unburden myself, to "plumb the well of my psyche" as you so aptly put it earlier.

SF: Again, oh?

JHC: I just wanted to spend some time with you, Sig. I like you.

SF: Well, I like you too, Jay. We harmonize pretty well, like an old vaudeville team.

JHC: Sure. And I like talking to you even in the Box.

SF: Well, that's never easy. No privacy there. But yeah, when it's possible, and when that fucking toad Innocent isn't groveling at your feet-

JHC (shudders): Eww, don't remind me.

SF: Sorry. (pause) So what happens now?

JHC: How about a friendly hug before we go?

SF: Not much of a hugger but sure, why not?

JHC: No homo.

SF: No homo.

JHC: There are disciples for that.

SF (half-scandalized): Hooboy!

JHC: C'mere you! (they embrace)

SF: Mmm, you smell nice, Jay. Frankincense? Myrrh? Does gold have an aroma?

JHC (genuinely confused): Uhh, no. It's plastic, probably. Just like you.

SF (whispers): Oh, I know. Play along.

JHC: Ah, okay. Aannd...whew! you oughta lay off those Trabbucos, Jay. I mean, woof, those are strong! Pee-yew! Totally stinko!

SF: I think we can break now. (they separate)

JHC: Bad for your health too!

SF: Natch.

JHC: And your mouth.

SF: Yess, got it. Well I, li'l fake Siggy, get it, at least. So now what?

JHC (strangely jocular): Well, Sig, let's say it's a good thing we just unhugged.

SF: Oh so? How's that?

JHC: I wouldn't want either of us to (aside) CATCH A CODA!!!!

SF: Aw, Gott!

SF: Ahem. Say, Jay, what's that behind your back?

JHC: Huh?

SF: You heard me, Mister I Am.

JHC: I'm actually not I Am, Mister Egomaniac. I am what I am but it's not I Am. Also I have no idea what you're talking about. Cough.

SF: "Mister Egomaniac," not bad. Got that book from your "mountain,"
didn't ya?

JHC: Gosh, Jay, I have no idea-

SF (a sudden realization): Wait! Is that the...bible you...were...hum!

JHC: Ahem. Say, Sig, if we're going to be noticing things behind our backs that most likely aren't really there then what do you call that thing behind yours, huh?!

SF freezes.

JHC: Well?

SF (wildly): FUCK YOU, JAY!!! FUCK YOU!!! I CAN QUIT ANY GODDAMNED TIME ANY I WANT TO!!! ANY TIME, MAN!!! MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BIZNESS, BRO!!! JUST...just mind...your...(brief hammy sobbing) Oh, uh, and there's nothing behind my back either.

JHC: Whatever you say, mountain man!

SF: So how was that? I emotive enough?

JHC: Oh, sure! Real Oscar-worthy!

SF: Box now?

JHC: Box.

SF: What do we do with these awesome books and tasteful doll furniture?

JHC: Dunno. Hell, I didn't take 'em out.

SF: Two word question for you: "Basement Tapes"?

JHC: Oh, yeah! (they exit)


Okay, now you can listen to it.


DB/6.2017

 
















  

   

Aristophanes Farted

                This is actually the only one of his plays I've read so far.
                           One down, ten to go! Same with you?
                                      


Aristophanes farted
in the eyes of the Stoics
Aspasia noticed
they seemed not impressed

he then aimed his ass
right at the Pantheon
("o he would not DARE!")
no he wouldn't

then boring ol' Plato & Aristotle
walked by & got it bad
A. pointed to the whores & boomed,
"now then, LAFF!!

I weep for the loss of the unread
scrolls, unremembered gibes,
the plain beauty of Cleopatra &
swordednakedoilySpartanwomenwarriors(WOOHA!)

this isn't all about Greece
("Dr. Susruta will see the Sphinx now")
or other dead satanic democracies
um...

the matrons prepped the tub,
laid out soap & towels & a dozen
clean razors for the hairy Sorbonne-educated
wolf-girl. "MERCI!" she cried "MERCI!"

YOUR LIFE IS NOT
WORTH HALF A RAND,
GO LIVE ON A KRAAL
IN ZULULAND!!!

if having mass orgiastic intercourse
in the agora with all the female slaves
you bought there is wrong...
uh, what was I saying?

Ras the Tigre & his fresh crew
are just kickin' it
in their limbo crib now,
knamean? Word, dawg.

the cloud dwellers & golden children
must surely be getting strong migraines
from all that thinking that they're
better than the REST OF US!!

what force had caused
my pencil to bleed such
detached, unusual verselets
that even Sappho might have enjoyed?

the Brunnhilde key does not
seem to fit well into the keyhole
yet it will not conform itself
so that it can fit

Aristophanes must have wept much
before he died because the world
must still have seemed so young & vibrant way
back in his time...& there was
never enough time to fully enjoy it
or fart to his hearts content

Ari, this one's for you...FRAAAPP!!
WOOHA!!



DB/8.24.01 (6/2017)

Divertissement

I.
gay, heady fete
if I left it now
no one would really miss me (tough!)
Offenbach's ghost
conducts the orchestra;
he winks merrily
and champagne corks fly.

II.
I trailed her
down to Marsailles
only when I got there
I found out she
went back to Calais,
took a boat to Dover
and so left me
and her pain behind.

                                                                                                                   III.
                                                                                               if there are any
                                                                                              new rainy night
                                                                                                     road songs
                                                                          come out of the everywhere
                                                                                           then I haven't yet
                                                                                                     heard them
                                                                                             because I'm still
                                                                                       very much attached
                                                                                             to Hornsby's '86.
                                                                                                                 still
                                                                                       there's always Milla.       
                                                  
                                                                                                                   IV.
                                                                                         many of my poems
                                                                                                   are all rather
                                                                                                      simply writ,
                                                                                           wouldn't you say?
                                                                                         I disdain profundity.
                                                                 
 

DB/c1997.2017








                                                                              
                                                 

O Lay Ye Down, My Lady

O lay ye down,
 My lady
Wi' your heart
 So poison'd sore,
Your true love's
 Hied away
For guerdon
 In that war.

For glory and
 For vict'ry,
To steal and
 To ravage,
To remind all
 Gent'l-women
Men can oft
 Be savage.

O, he ought now
 Present be
And you both
 Could retire,
Knit corse to corse
 Like arras threads,
Union'd abed
 With loins afire.

There your bed,
 There your couch,
Choose as fits
 Your pleasure,
To lie and keen
 And await news
Of the valiance
 Of your treasure.

I can be kind
 And just to men
When they're oft not
 Like such fools
And forego their
 Own proclivity
For power, land
 And jewels.

But here! A herald
 Gasping comes,
Surely wi'
 The Golden Tale
Of your true love's
 Wond'rous bravery
That ne'er was
 Wont to fail.

Ah! good Sir,
 Say not true,
For your news be
 scalding curt
Of the young man
 Fall'n in battle
And at present
 Grievous hurt.

Now comes another
 Such like you,
A-pant for
 Want of breath.
Ah, curse this war,
 O my poor lady,
It hath seen to
 Your swain's death!

O what avail
 These tears of mine,
With thine
 All seas are fill'd?
But I see now
 Thro' ghostly blur
You lie so...
  Still'd.

Ah!...so I see,
 O my poor lady
That you've fall'n not
 In a swound,
But shall soon clasp
 Your own true love
In the chill,
 Uncivil ground.



DB/4.2017
 
 
   

 





 

A Prologue To An Unwoven Canterbury Tale

  I found this story fragment when I was hunting for my brother's baby book in a box where I stored some other notebooks and copies of earlier poems I wrote. One of those notebooks contained my attempt at a Canterbury tale, although I haven't read it in years and have no idea how long ago I wrote it or even in which decade (my best guess is late 90s/early 00s). There was a partial Tale that I penned following this Prologue but upon recently rereading it I felt there was no trace of a good solid story in it, so for now I'll offer only what I have here (with slight editing) which I think is interesting reading in and of itself. I imagine that writing your own Canterbury Tale (or even just a Prologue) could be a fun college Creative Writing assignment (what sayst thou, Kaycie?) whether its in a Medieval setting or a contemporary one or whatever the student prefers. I actually have no plans to add a further Tale to this Prologue right now because I'm currently working on my Jesus/Freud 'Dolls' dialogue, but I hope you enjoy what I've written here. Thank you.


Here begins the prologue to my tale: "Well, I must say," the Host boomed in his hearty and most cheerful voice, "that is one tale which not only bears repeating but should certainly be rewarded with a repast such as the likes of Lucullus has never seen. But of course there are still many tales to be told by the whole lot of you. So enough of this idle chatter. Who will be the next one to treat our ears to a fabrication? And remember, the _____'s story, as excellent as it may have sounded, has not yet won the meal, so please do not hesitate to offer it some stiff competition."
 "Wait," said the Miller, his arm stretched out in a halting gesture and his eyes fixed curiously on me. "It seems that this young fellow has been following us for quite some time now. I don't recall him as being a part of this group."
 No sooner had the words escaped from the Miller's lips than all eyes turned to look at me. I felt like I was about the size of a dwarf as I stood openly in their paths of vision. I was ready to turn and run away if they expressed any signs of animosity towards me, but of course they didn't.
 "Why, he's only a boy," said the Monk.
 "Poor thing!" cried the Wife of Bath sympathetically. "He looks so cold and tired. I wonder how long he has been traveling with us."
 The Summoner, who was not a very pleasant man, or even a pleasant-looking one, came up to me and demanded, "Who are you, child, and why have you been following us?"
 "Let him be, Summoner," ordered the Host. "Don't scare him away." The Summoner quickly backed off, and the Host then turned to me and calmly asked, "What is your name, child?'
 I told him my name and then added, "I beg to differ with you, sir, but I am not exactly what you consider a child, though my looks may say otherwise. I am, in fact, eighteen years of age."
 The Host smiled at me and said, "So you are a man, yet you are still pretty young to be traveling by yourself, if that is indeed what you are doing."
 I nodded and said, "I travel around England working for and earning whatever wages I can to purchase clothing and sustenance and also to rent adequate but temporary lodgings. That's what I do half the time. The other half I spend looking for adventure in any shape or form which will not only add some excitement to my oftentimes plebeian and prosaic life but also some weight to my near-vacant change purse." I sighed. "So far I have not been too fortunate."
 "That is very commendable, I think," replied the Friar.
 "You can never have too much adventure in your life," said the Knight proudly. "I should know."
 "He's young, but still seems to be able to take care of himself," remarked the Wife of Bath.
 "'Plebeian and prosaic,'" murmured the Monk. "We've another scholar here!"
 "Enough of this idle chatter!" snapped the Summoner harshly. "I still would like to know why you have been following this party so closely, you young knave!"
 "Didn't I tell you to let him be, Summoner?" said the Host sternly.
 "By St. Loy he must drunken quite out of his mind to speak to the youngster like that!" exclaimed the Prioress.
 "No, I don't think so," said the Sailor. "When he's drunk he usually speaks only in Latin."
 "Well, then, this must be a real first for him!" joked the Miller.
 "I'll tell you the reason why, Sir Summoner," I replied calmly. "I shall be more than happy to. But I would appreciate it if you could act a little more civilly towards me from now on."
 The Summoner glared indignantly at me for a moment, then backed away and nodded in sullen agreement. I paused to briefly consider my precis for these people, and then simply spoke the truth. "I have little to say here by way of explanation," I began. "I was sitting in a corner at the Host's Tabard Inn back at Southwark, masticating on a bit of roast mutton and keeping pretty much to myself when in walked this motley group of pilgrims. I paid little attention to them at first, but when I overheard them discussing their trip to Canterbury and their intent on making it more interesting by having each person tell a certain number of tales, the best one receiving a rather grandiose meal, well, I just couldn't stay away. I would have come right out and asked them if I could join them on this rather long journey but I thought they might refuse me, seeing as they had enough people in their party already."
 Oh, nonsense!" interjected the Knight. "Anyone who makes for good company is welcome to come with us."
 "Thank you, sir," I replied politely. "I appreciate that. So as I watched everybody leave the Tabard and begin their journey I decided to follow close behind them. For a while I felt successful that I had followed them without appearing suspicious, but I must have somehow erred for the Miller spotted me and, well, you know the rest."
 For a moment no one spoke, and I heeded the cheerful chirping of birds and the wind rustling through the treetops above. Finally the Host strode up to me, clapped a hand on my shoulder and said, "Tell me, young sir, are you any good at storytelling?"
 "What?"
 "Can you tell stories? Do you excel in that at all?"
 "Well, I suppose I am. Yes, yes, I am. I can," I replied as earnestly as I could while masking the trepidation I felt.
 "Then you shall be the next to tell us one."
 I started. "You-you mean-"
 He laughed. "Yes! Welcome to our company!"
 A ringing cheer rose from the group. "I should have done this from the very start," proclaimed the Wife of Bath as she removed her voluminous cloak and hung it on my shoulders. "I cannot believe I almost let you freeze to death!" I smiled gratefully as everyone patted me on the back. I turned to the Wife of Bath and asked, "Won't you need this?"
 She grinned, the gap between her front teeth clearly visible. "Pay me no mind, dearie. I have another."
 "Now then," said the Host after gathering everyone's attention, "I suggest we carry on 'til we attain the next inn, where we shall dine and remain for the night, and then, after we've fattened him and us up some, will gladly heed this young man's tale." He winked at me and immediately I began to shape a story in my brain. "Then after this has been done," he resumed, "we shall all sleep and remain inside 'til after breakfast tomorrow morn, then resume our journey. All in favor?"
 "Aye! Aye! Aye!" bellowed the pilgrims.
 "Good, then let's be off." We all continued for the next hour to ride along the broad dirt road, and while everyone chatted animatedly with one another I remained silent. My ears pricked up when I heard my name mentioned, and a few of my fellow pilgrims sidled alongside my ass and attempted to engage in banter with me, only to take advantage of my reticence and end up doing much of the talking themselves while I half-listened. In truth my mind was still spinning like a dynamo as I strove to create a tale which, good or bad, satisfying or no, I needed to have prepared for the telling. It was still at work even as we attained the next inn, interestingly named 'The Boar's Tusks'. After we all had a hearty dinner and were gathered close to the hearth fire in the dining room my time had finally come, and so stood in front of the company and began by clearing my throat a few much times, as much to annoy the grunting Summoner as for better articulation. Then I really was ready, and so began my story...


                 
DB/late 1990s or early 2000s(?).2017

 

Valentino

Bellissima!
I watch her run
down the Tuscan hill
and glide along
on its unevenness
with fluid grace, 
very like a woman
out of Muybridge
(not nude, of course).
So in that way
I drink her in
frame by frame
as a lover might,
instead of with selfish
flipbook insolence
like a fucker would.
Her long cascade
of silken midnight tresses
bounce and wave
against the back
of her scarlet dress-
an affront
to the languid citron green
decline under her sandalled feet.
She laughs at Boreas,
a real bully today,
who only succeeds
in stirring the grasses
to curl in obeisance to her.
And like a baffled fool
I'm still perched
on the hilltop.
"Come!" she commands sprightly
before racing further down.
So,
I come.
I chase.
I catch.
But she lets me.

We later march back up
through the vineyard
and filch some of its
bursting green grapes.
And back under the cool awning
of our fave little cafe
we use them
to play table hockey
with mozzarella
string cheese,
but they all roll to the floor.
She uses one as a prop
for her sexy Groucho
while I, of course, insist
on a playful duel,
one without a clear winner, though,
because the 'swords'
break apart,
pieces fly everywhere,
our waiter is quite irked
but we just laugh
and laugh.
"Ah! Baciatemi!" she bellows abruptly
and lunges across the table at me,
upsetting the wine glasses
and our half-bottle of Chianti,
all of which join
the grapes and cheese,
and presses her painted, full red lips
hard onto mine,
a violation I invite.
We quickly have each other
under our tilted table
and amongst the upset chairs
while the world around us freezes,
and we make noise enough
to unsettle even the dust
of the jaded Old Romans.
Bellissima!


I jolt to the waiter's voice
sounding above me.
"Yes, just a little more wine.
Grazie!"
I gaze around the serene cafe
then out across the terrace
to the rolling hills,
cumuli shadows sailing across them.
The low buzz of insects
waft in and out of earshot
in this intense June heat
and the sun has inched ever
further west.
I gaze at the glass on my table.
The day's half over
and I want to cry.

Sure,
just a little more...



So after we're roundly ejected
she and I each, in our slight undress,
try to hop frog the other
down the dusty road
to the village.
(Don't ask me why.)
But again we laugh and laugh.
until suddenly she grips me by the shoulders
and pulls me close,
nudging my stubbly cheek
with her pert nose,
her hot breath
grazing my lips.
We share vino bacis
and like oiled cogs
pivot our faces to the valley
we ascended from.
"E notte?" she coos warmly.

Oh, tonight?
I smile.

Tuscany
will be all fucking ours.




DB/2.2017


Happy Valentine's Day, mi amanti del amore!

 

Many Greetings of the Season!

 Hi everyone, how are you all doing? I've decided to waive my bold-faced holiday greetings this year (not least because they're kind of a pain to center) and just let these two guys who'll be in my next 'Dolls' dialogue do the talking.

SF: Ach! Hallo, all! I'm Jay und this is Sig.
JC: Oh, ho, ho! Totes wrong-o, dudes! I'm really Jay, and this guy's Sig!
SF: "Totes wrong-o, dudes"? What the hell ist that scheisse?
JC: Never mind, let's just do our greetings.
SF: Suits me. Froeliche Weinachten, alle!
JC: Nice! But we can't evereverever ever forget what the real "Reason for the Season" is, right? Riiight?
SF: Oh nein, never.
JC: Well, then-Happy Winter Solstice, everyone!
SF: Beautiful.
JC: And the next time you see us we'll be awkwardly ensconced in these pieces of doll furniture. So think of this sofa here as a psychoanalyst's couch; I'll be the patient, of course. Should be insightful!
SF: Some nice pieces, these. I like them.
JC: As do I. So just to be clear, everybody, as if you didn't already figure it out, I'm Jay.
SF: Sig here.
BOTH: Happy holidays! Bye bye! Auf Wiedersehen!


 One more thing I should mention is that as far as posts go next year they'll sometimes be stretched months apart again so I have more time to create. I'll continue to work more on the 'Dolls' dialogues (see above), finish 'Domestique', begin the third Aggie story and hopefully add more poetry.
 I want to thank all of you who've read my stuff, not just here in North America but also in Europe and Russia too! I really appreciate your interest and hope I can still capture it into the New Year.
 So have a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, a Sexy Secular Saturnalia - basically just relax, reflect, have loads of fun and I'll see all you next year! Thanks again!


DB/12.2016
 

         Hey Aaron, how's about a Kefir toast in front of this fire! Cheers!