Buzzards on Parade
The twelfth day of the month was Copperhead Wednesday. Serpentine was the look we were going for.
Beatific upper register notes is what Maria was reaching for: Ta da la ta da la dao, was what she sang to a supper club of adoring mengeese eyeing a pair of lady rattlesnakes. Midnight. Thursday morning. Applause. Thunderous.
Savorous twistings of moonglow hairs into chignons and much dispensing with shoes and underthings. There was nothing like a cobra line dance to make it libertine-free and parsimonious-lite.
I, the author, heard someone order a chocolate stout. “Not served here,” was the reply. Vehement — something akin to buzzards on parade: wing-wide convection current surfing loafers — something free, not imagined, not paid for, not patented and surely made to disappoint.
Asseverations to “live fully and create in the midst of the desert” notwithstanding, Maria went home alone.
“Let the voices of dead poets
Ring louder in your ears
Than the screechings mouthed
In mildewed editorials.”
— Bob Kaufman / “Believe, Believe”