In the fancy new
Restaurant surrounding him
With Luxury, Truth.
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[N]Everlast, part 3
(Recap: a boxer has a girlfriend whose magic thread, sewn into his gloves, gave him stamina and helped him win his fights. She unstitched it at his request and he won matches without magical help. She grew jealous of his female fans and restitched the gloves to wilt him, both in the ring and on his shorts. He confronted her and she again undid the stitching and committed to doing whatever he asked, provided he won his next bout.)
F.R. was outweighed by 7 pounds at the weigh-in
And was glad
He felt lean and slippery quick
And at the bell he was silent and tentative at first
They traded inconsequential jabs
F. got clipped with a glancing roundhouse to the brow
Then danced back from a left of murderous power
Then he weaved in under his foe’s punches and said You are getting one in the ribs just as he delivered a non-dominant-hand uppercut below his opponent’s guard
And just as the round was ending F. said I hope you like snowstorms
.
In round two F poured it on
He attacked like George Patton and he trash-talked like Larry Bird with a snowstorm of punches in flurries that built to a blizzard
Heedless of defending his face he did get a convincing punch in the nose that brightened the inside of his head and gave him blood to taste in the back of his mouth
But he barked a laugh and said Share and share alike and delivered an amazingly accurate payback punch to his foe’s nose
Then threw body shots that landed faster than jumprope smacking hardwood
And then the enemy was down
.
Wobbly after the eight-count F.’s opponent proved vulnerable to combinations to the swollen-eyed side of his head
And early in the fourth round F. knocked the guy out
.
How shall we celebrate? Cecilia asked him, eyes shining.
We’ll have to wait till tomorrow, F. told her. I have some unfinished business. He gave her a quick kiss and said See you in the morning and left her.
.
Where did you go? Cecilia demanded, regarding her man carrying an assortment of thin packages under his arm.
First your grandmother’s. Then Macy’s, where I bought these, and he slightly hefted the arm-bundle, then your grandmother’s again, where I spent the night.
He lifted his arm over their dining-room table. The packages, which contained bras, scattered on the lace tablecloth. You’re a 34B, right?
What the hell…?
These are Maidenform bras. Some of them have the “M” logo charm on them, some don’t. But what I did, I had your grandmother, who is even more witchy than you are, sew different variations of “Maidenform” on each one of them. If you put one of them on, it will change you, just like what you sewed on my gloves changed me.
Her eyes widened.
He picked one of them up. This one is “Maldenform.” It will, honest to God, change your nipples into replicas of Karl Malden’s nose.
She gasped.
He picked up another. And this one is “Maidenfarm.” Ever wonder what it would be like to have udders instead of breasts?
She shuddered.
Hey, you shuddered. Fun fact: You can’t spell “shuddered” without Udder.
She rolled her eyes and then looked aghast.
But I will only ask you to wear this one. And last week you told me you would do whatever I asked. He handed her the bra.
She looked at her grandmother’s stitching and it said, in elegant cursive, “MaidenfOMFG.”
WHAT WILL HAPPEN?? she wailed.
He grinned. Trust me. Like you said you would.
She looked at him balefully, then stood up and slowly unbuttoned her blouse, then wrestled herself out of her sports bra. She looked down at her perfectly normal, slightly slouchy breasts, then slipped her arms though the straps of her new bra. Before she fastened the clasp in the front she looked him in the eye, trying to get a clue from his expression, which was inscrutable.
Immediately after she fastened the bra, a humming noise came from the cups. She felt her breasts grow warm, then almost hot. The voice of Hank Williams came from the clasp, singing
Hey,
Good Lookin‘
What
Ya got cookin’?
How about cookin’ something up with
Me?
Abruptly the singing stopped. The humming stopped. The heat from the cups subsided.
Her hands flew to the clasp and she pulled the bra open, then looked down with astonishment.
Her breasts were unchanged.
She looked a question at him.
He grinned. Guess they were OMFG all along.
And he explained that he hadn’t wanted revenge
He had just wanted her to go through something like he had gone through
And he did like her breasts just fine but she was no more her breasts than he was his fists
And he loved her, jealousy and all, and wanted to be with her forever, if she could stand it that he enjoyed the admiration of other females at a distance
And she inhaled and held her breath for three seconds and said Okay and I love you too and
She suddenly laughed and said You wear Jockey shorts, right?
Yeah…?
Any problem with me sewing Hung like a Jockey’s Horse on them?
He laughed and said Go ahead. I doubt if you will notice the difference.
She rolled her eyes and said You are SO full of..
He kissed her.
The End
[N]Everlast, part 2
(Recap: The witchy girlfriend of an aspiring boxer has used magic thread to reinforce the “Last” part of his Everlast gloves. After winning bouts by going the distance, the boxer told his girlfriend that he wanted to win without magical help. She bought him new gloves and he started winning by not going the distance, winning by knockout or TKO instead. His growing fame led to a surge of e-mails and snail-mail from his female fans (among others) and his girlfriend got jealous. In spite she sewed a tiny N to the left of the EVERLAST on his gloves, and now the boxer finds himself totally useless, both in the ring and the bedroom.)
[N]Everlast, part 2
Bereft of manhood
Both in his hapless fists and in his boxing trunks
F.R. the boxer wept
And worried
With an important fight coming up in mere days
.
He went to his jealous lover Cecilia
Accused her of sabotaging him
And she pulled the shoebox of letters out from under the bed
And asked him who was sabotaging who
.
You know what? F. said chuckling
I totally love those letters
And I’m sorry you saw them
Because I knew you would go ballistic
She started to answer but held up a hand
I like that women want me
But it’s just lust for the big sweaty boxer
Just craziness
Now undo whatever you have done ASAP
You don’t want a man who can’t be a man, right?
.
She saw his honest earnest face and apologized
She showed him the little Ns and got out her forked unstitching tool
And unN’d the gloves
He pulled his trunks by the waistband to check his junk
Smiled and said Little F is waking up
She beckoned to the bedroom but he shook his head
Sorry Doll
I got to save my juice for the big fight
And if I win I will want some payback
He looked at her lovingly but repeovingly
I mean–you invaded my privacy and then got me clobbered
She blushed and nodded
He asked her Do you trust me?
She said Yes I do
If you trust me, and love me, will you do whatever I ask you to do after the fight?
She nodded and said Yes I will.
(To be concluded)
[N]Everlast, part 1
Once upon a time
There was a boxer who courted a witch seamstress
And she was nuts about him
And she sewed stitching onto the “LAST” syllable of his Everlast gloves
And he always went the distance
And he lasted all night too
Until he didn’t and he didn’t
The day after he told her he wanted to win without any magical help
And she bought him a new pair of gloves
.
He didn’t always go the distance
But often it was due to his winning by knockout
His confidence grew and he was proud
And though all-nighters were in their sexual rearview mirror
A dependable hour and a half or so brought smiles to both their faces
And he got more rest and won more fights and moved up the undercard
.
He started getting fan mail
Phone calls
Shoutouts from female celebrity fans
And she grew jealous
And one livid day she found a cache of snail-mail letters under his side of the bed
Some were explicit but the tender ones were worse
She blushed and fumed
And she used her magic thread to see a tiny, unnoticeable N to the left of the EVERLAST on both of his gloves
.
Next time he sparred his sparring partner pulverized him
(To be continued)
one silent, one yakking, neither a yak
a friendly looming chatterbox held court with his dark friend
in the valley of the sunshine where the shadows bring relief
and the dark beplumed nonlady wished the yakyakyak would end
but she sat in silent dignity
endured the long debrief
at long last the non-yak yakker asked her what she made of it
and she cocked her head in thought and looked her friend up in the eye
and she shrugged; allowed a birdbrain like her didn’t give a whit
she just wished for unlocked wings and open windows for to fly
and her friend reared up and clacked his beak but grinned and said exactly
and you know that’s what i’ve thought for years and added good for you
and his friend beak-smiled at all the nonsense
said matter-of-factly
and kept to herself the evidence her pal’s a birdbrain too
tastes
the tomato slicer clocks out heads home takes a nap/awakens mid-afternoon and it still being too hot to walk outside/takes a look at movie listings on amazon prime
he sees a jack reacher title/and clicks on it to find to his dismay that it is not the new guy/but a miscast tom cruise instead/but it has some good improbable action/but is plagued by commercials/so he exits playing about 45 minutes in
clicks on the “continue playing” button for the good the bad and the ugly/which he’d watched a chunk of in its greasepainted glory a week ago/with clint eastwood and lee van cleef and eli wallach as the arch archetypes
the tomato slicer noted with astonishment that this spaghetti western miraculously left a taste of spaghetti in his mouth
making him hungry so he took a convenience store burrito from the fridge and reviewed the microwave instructions and followed them
and as the burrito was cooling saw in the amazon prime listings thunderbolt and lightfoot/with clint eastwood and a really young jeff bridges and george kennedy
the delighted tomato slicer fired it up/he’d missed this film in the 70s but always wanted to see it
and it tasted like sawdust but in a good way/and smelt of the linseed oil the tomato slicer used/when he was briefly an oil painter in the mid 70s
oddly though no trace of turpentine was in the scent
there is no accounting for taste, i suppose the tomato slicer mused as he fired up bad boys clint and jeff again
and as he ate and watched/he couldn’t help misting up/thinking about what time had done for and to eastwood and bridges
plus poor george kennedy had died ten days after his 91st birthday more than eight years ago
but the movie being nice and raw and weird soon banished such mawkish thoughts
yet the tomato slicer having finished the burrito/now daydreams of amidnight snack of a tomato-and-mayonnaise sandwich on extra-sour san francisco sourdough bread
and a big glass of cold cold milk
and another movie
Bishop Confers with Rook
Bishop Confers with Rook
Hey Rook, said the Bishop, the Queen’s Knight has his eye on me
I am threatened
How about defending me?
.
Can’t, said the Rook
You may well go down in a move or two
But it will be for the greater good
.
I don’t want to die! cried the Bishop
.
Cmon, Holy Father
You guys are born to be sacrificed
They might even make a saint out of you
.
You heartless pile of bricks! the Bishop sniped
You have never given me so much as the time of day
.
Not true, said the Rook
I pray for you every move
That you do the right thing
Now go to King’s Bishop Six
And we will win
.
Reluctantly the Bishop did as told
And the enemy Knight ran him through
And four moves later the Enemy was checkmated
According to the Maker’s plan
.
The Bishop sighed as he was put away
Another game another lancing of the heart
But every piece gets put away sooner or later
And, miraculously,
Each new game starts with Resurrection
And Re-Deployment
d
d for dimension and distance and dear
d for discography duh disappear
dangle a doodad for dimpled delight
dip into dollars for funtime or flight…ah, but
.
dastardly doer of doomscrolling deeds
drops new distractive denouncements in screeds
direness daunts what we need is relief
drive out this dreadfulness cease with this grief…so
.
dante’s inferno’s a third of the tale; let’s
dare to climb through purgatorio’s wail
dance with the deities rise with the leaven
deem ourselves worthy of striving for heaven…xoxo
aspect
an older frank sinatra sang lyrics from “the way you look tonight”/and they used it for a commercial/with stills of frank singing and smiling/and who knows what the commercial was advertising/but i trust it showed to frank/that he still had it/and was valued
a really old tony bennett/brought tears to lady gaga’s eyes/simply by recognizing her when she came out to sing with him/and they sang timelessly together/though tony was addled with dementia
glen campbell and alice cooper were golfing together/and glen told alice a joke early in the round/and then told him the same joke later in the round/and yet again before the round was over/but glen kept on performing on stage/and bathing in the applause/and he was still really good/and muscle memory kept his guitar playing astonishing
and i identify with and cheer for those old guys/and learn from them/that spending the last of your life making music/even when much of you is gone/is a glorious testament to “the show must go on”
.
i was an art major in college/and jokingly told my friends and family/that i was getting an early jump on my retirement
turns out not to be a joke
i will be seventy-one before the end of august
and i blissfully spend hours and hours making things on the potter’s wheel
i turn lumps into cylinders and cylinders into chess pieces and goblets and vases and birds
and I watch with increasing detachment as another part of my mind slowly erodes
for instance I did a search on “glenn campbell”/because i’d forgotten that “glen” has only one n in it
.
but back to “the way you look tonight”
it is a distant echo of the lines “And all that’s best of dark and bright/Meet in her aspect and her eyes” from “She Walks in Beauty” by george gordon, lord byron
“aspect” loosely translating as “the way she looks”
fun fact: “specchio” is old italian for “looking-glass”
.
i don’t give a care about leaving a good-looking corpse
but i care fervidly about leaving some good-looking and well-made clay art
so I raise the “power turquoise” cup i made, and i raise it to you, whoever and wherever you are,
and say, though i cannot see you,
“Here’s looking at you, Kid.”
Sculpting the Black Queen
The Queen woke up as
I was adding a bulbous earring.
“You have changed me completely,” she scolded.
“I do not recognize myself.”
“Gone is my patrician nose
And my delightful androgyny
And the angular cut of my cheekbone.
Why?”
I shrugged.
“You are more You now.
You have defined eyes
And the innate regality of a survivor
And the hint of a smile
That sees you through the worst.
You are more real.”
She made me widen her eyes
And put a teardrop near the right lacrimal duct.
But of course when I did that
I had to do a dozen other things.
“You are making me more homely,” she complained.
“No. I am sculpting you, and you are sculpting me
Just as much. You are uniquely lovely
And your daughters will be lovelier still.”
This silenced her
And soon I was finished.
One with Clay, Image and Text 