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One ice-green candle, lit. Andrea, we can't go on meeting like this. One ice-blue candle, lit. But now that I have you here, I want you to know that pink was Beethoven's favorite color. Spoon on the left, then knife. Dinner fork, appetizer fork, dessert fork. How do you like your steak? (Medium rare, two inches thick, char-broiled, like Dad makes, juicy. Ask me another question.) What do you like for dessert? (Cherry cheesecake with drippy cherry on top or flaming.) Andrea, I've been trying to tell you this for a very long time. Here's the champagne. |
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Princess Pocahantas, excellent lady, be near to me because with your voice you have given me tours of a hundred million petals of crystal and silverware and your calmness draws me into river heavens and light heavens and heavens of rain and heavens of freedom and heavens of warmth and redwood where royalty are forever dancing their marriage dances glittering with gold rings and roses rich. It is your art to draw me near, where I search for you in some golden mirror and ask "Has the divine lady been here?" Crowned by crimson fireplaces we share cheer and harmony.
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Put me on that special list, the ones that really mourn the old Coca-Cola. That strong, bracing beverage which made merry millions of us over and over again, that special dark brew is now disappearing from the shelves at a rapid rate. I could still go out now and find some store that sells the old Coca-Cola, but how long can this pleasure last since the imposter, new Coca Cola, is being shipped in by hundreds of cases? Goodbye, old Coca-Cola, you bracing black turpentine, you stout after-shave, goodbye old Coke once costing a nickle.
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I don't know if I would be a very wise person if I tried to describe to you a girl I met named Schaelina Valarian. I suspect her of things, of witchcraft and terrible cooking. She has almost convinced me to accept that torchlight of her smile, haven't you, Valarian? But she will break free and run if you try to start thinking that she is a nice person. She is made of snips and snails and sugar and spice. I don't write poems about the dead! I write poems about living people, praising the sweet lightning striking in them. |
| The cold lace dress with four pearl buttons, a tapestry of snow, a gentle sash, frills under the chin. She seems to be covered with layers of lace, wrapped in deep drifts and piles of lace, with a corsage on her wrist. The dress is patterned with a whole book of different flowers, shy flowers tucked in around her sleeves and waist. Betty Crocker never made a better cake than her ivory creation made for twirling tonight, perfectly made to veil such a beautiful girl who may twirl or curtsey and not show the knee. She bows like frosted cake. |
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Many rainbows of fire, many bursts against the slate of the night sky. Bursts within bursts. How can you describe fourteen balls of white flame pouring upward into the night one after another? Painting in the sky. Bursts of gold turning blue. Pieces of red fire holding in the air minute after minute without moving. Red, green, blue, yellow, white flecks all at once. Lasting and expiring flowers made of long gold flames. Hilarious carnations stamped upon space. A high trellis decorated by elusive spangles. Loud charges going off, the whole heavens a fireplace. Decimated cold cherries, a night network. |