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Celeste
I was rolling down a mountain,
I was riding on the storm,
With the ghosts of Natty Bumpo and Celeste
to keep me warm.
I was flying like an eagle,
I was swooping like a dove,
When vertigo –
sudden, knife sharp, paralyzing reality,
mind grown numb with organic fear.
Yeahhh – Motorcrash.
The server is down.
Picture: Ancient jewelry reconstituting, shaking free from the earth. Diamonds swell up like blisters on a newly gilded gold tiara, popping their way through, the white light suddenly startling as it breaks into crystal.
There was this jazz cat,
looked like Gato played like Trane.
All the right changes but no charisma.
Wrong name.
Wrong attitude.
Maybe the wrong body.
Now the horn hides in the attic, taunting him from above.
Cat never goes to the attic.
The attic itself has a magnificent vibe –
bright corners, dramatic angles –
A small but intimate juke joint with the right stroke of
imagination….
Tonight we take this mountain.
Tonight we weather this storm.
The Mary Celeste sails on, captain tossing wood chips onto the waves, trying to gauge the speed. Natty is below deck in a purple satin cape embroidered with tiny rosaries, his tiara reflecting the candlelight. The crew is belligerent but afraid. The horn he is playing is unlike anything that they have seen, neither brass nor reed, but an unholy union of the two. It squawks and yet sings, and the crew, bolstered by the extensive liquor stocks, gradually mellows.
Motorcrash.
The server is down.
It’s almost time to depart. |
