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The Dazzler

The girls left for Columbia, Tired looks on their faces. I turned out the lights, Put my head on the pillow. I heard breathing. The dazzler from the Maple Leaf Was hot on me In her thin-knit top. Her mouth was moving, “Stay in my music baby, “Stay in the music.” I could hardly breathe. I shifted with a rush of adrenalin— She slid off. All was still. No spirits to commune.

Starbucks

I threw a tantrum at Starbucks today The barista put foam on my latte. I clearly ordered it without Written right on the cup. I told her she was stupid. “Fire her,” I told the manager. By the end of my tantrum She was sobbing in the backroom. The manager apologized and Personally made me a new drink To calm me down. I took it and accepted his apology. I must go back and beg her forgiveness, I haven’t had a shower in three days.

Bell, Book and Candle

Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.—King James Bible, 1611, Matthew, 5:15.   Inasmuch as the recent events surrounding the Lady Arlene (if that indeed is her real name) are not widely known, I have attempted a rude and hasty account from marginal notes, eyewitness accounts and a late edition of the Creve Coeur Crier. The first indication of something amiss was a no-show for a four o'clock showing of The Favourite, a film illuminated by candles, for it seems that on the previous night, she had been resting under a canopy in her handsome, four poster bed after the day’s entertainments. The Crier did not state if she had recently drawn unknown persons to her baits or excited any passions, but one thing is certain—as of late, she had been much taken by a new cleansing ritual, touted by a talk show host with Axis pretensions, utilizing a regimen of pulverized kale enemas (not recommended). Wh

The Ladder Salesman

I usually ignore my answering machine for hours, sometimes days, but when I heard, “It’s urgent,” I thought better. After all, it was kind of urgent the day she mentioned that her boyfriend of seven years had shot himself in the head.  This time it was two tickets at the Fox.  “Don’t you want to see Johnny Mathis?”  “No thanks.” “Come on,” she said. “I’m not in the mood.” “Please?” “Why did you wait to the last minute?” “Well . . . nobody else could go.” She needed someone to go with her since her brand-new car is, and always will be, asking for someone else to drive it. Of course, she’s blind in one eye and can’t see out of the other, especially when drinking. “Don’t you want to see Johnny again?” she said in her plaintive tone. “He is 80. I guess maybe I should before he doesn’t come back. I’ll drive.” “Do you have something really cute? A girl can never tell who she might run into when she’s downtown.” “Mm-hmm. Yeah, actually.” “We need to hurry. Be over at my house by

Betty Blue

I cracked her door on a wintry day— Waist-high rotting piles Spread beyond all hope. We drove away with a crooked mouth, Her eyes on me like a galliard tree, Descanting Ulysses, Joyce and more. Read me sad poems, she softly said, Crystals, rings and virgin parchments I have seen all these. Late, I brought her home and She held me close with an opera she knew— Pratzel’s closes at two! What the hell! She fell down dead, Day after Christmas. I ate a bagel this morning.

Betty Blue Notes

Woman who lived, died a recluse will be mourned By Bill McClellan ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH Sunday, Jan. 07 2007 "She is wearing rags and feathers from Salvation Army counters, and the sun pours down like honey on our lady of the harbor." — Leonard Cohen from "Suzanne" Most of Betty Wynn's bed was covered with trash, but there was a little corner in which she could lie down. That was all she needed. She was not concerned about the things that concern most people. On the day after Christmas, her brother, Sam Lachterman, got up first. He is 85 years old, six years younger than his sister. He has long white hair, an unkempt white beard. He has a doctorate in mathematics, and he never married. He has lived with his sister most of his life. He was in the kitchen when he heard her call out from the room that had once been a dining room. She was on the floor, which was, as always, hidden under mounds of trash. He almost stepped on her. Then she rolled over on her si

Jay

The brass came by, proclaiming their message of war. “When the NVA pounces, we’ll dump air and arty on him and wipe him out.” Lt. Martinez, a veteran presence with four years in-country, didn’t share the line. Martinez was of a mind that you had to be a little smarter than to raise a baiting operation in the Dog’s Head. He spoke with amused vehemence as if he understood everything from the beginning. “Firebases are not a good place. No real cover, no room to maneuver, no chance to flank the other side.” I was wordless, wondering if the general staff will be in control, making smart decisions as the situation develops, though my immediate fear was an attack before Jay was hardened. After the last-light patrol sallied forth, it was time to wrap. Col. Hannas, who was not above taking point, was there to check our night readiness like a good neighbor. He eyed Thumper (my M79 grenade launcher): “Are you ready to go, son?” “Yes, sir.” “It’s damn hot.” “Yes, sir.” “Do you need anything?” “No