11,041 vagabonds plus:
artists and models
Smile now, signorina.
A joke, perhaps. Sì?
Ok, Desmoulins and King François stroll into the village pub and say to the proprietor....no..no..better not go there. Oh no...please remain seated, Mona.
Umm...ok, I know...What is the best hand to paint with?
You give up, signorina?
Neither - it's best to paint with a brush!
Listen. Francesco is sitting at the caffè and he demands coffee without creme and five minutes later the cameriere returns to Francesco and says sorry signore we have no creme can it be without the milk of the goat?
Do you not understand? - No creme - Can it be without the milk of the goat? Five full minutes, signorina.
No? Look, please signorina, please smile, Mona, just smile so I can finish at least ONE thing! in my lifetime.
Ah, Giorgio was right: I should only paint small children or dogs.
trumpets on the horizon
pompes the dreaded
The Cure, clarion cry to
pomp and circumstance
tale of long ago
Tell it to you slow?
She had this cut above her right eye. She looked as though she could've taken a pint of blood, she was that pale, at least as far as princesses go. I told her I'd get her safe to solid ground, Malta, as soon as possible but she'd have nothing to do with it. The stalwart Knightley, a fine vessel, her wooden planks the same blood red where that shield hangs now upon the wall, continued north off the African coast in the blinding blue Mediterranean, destination Rome.
The waif made a good account of herself. No hesitation in wielding a blade, aye, the one poised on the left you see is the one she chose, two-fisted closed-eyed slashing at first, morphing into an experienced little swashbuckler, confident with wide and piercing eyes, killing two, decapitating one coming for me, wounding seven scoundrels at the poop. No better man at my back. And just a cut above the eye to show, not from a sword slashing, only from falling against a turnbuckle after combat. Her spunk and bravery? My guess is she was so furious when they chopped off her flowing mane during a drunken assault, aye, you see there front and center tassel, after the kidnap. She gave me an avenging smile when I asked if I might use her recaptured locks for a tassel. I took it as a yes.
But bravery only to a point, the lass, aye. The cries of the wounded would shake anyone to their core. Even in her serenity she shuddered. I grabbed her wrist and led her below, and then she was crying. I held the cloth to her eyebrow before she ripped it out of my hand and turned away. Aye, crying.
On course for Rome, all dastardly savages upon the scarlet deck tossed overboard, silent, except for sea against the Knightley, her clean white sail aflutter, the esteemed passenger not worried the least of a scar, and forever by my side.
tale of long ago, part two...
After blue raindrops
white portly full moon is tossed
beyond mountain clouds
bunch of violets
He was alone at the grave site, saturated in misty violets amongst all others, cold gray and unloved. A gaunt, pale man appeared beside him, as though he had followed bread crumbs, wearing a full length black cloak, soiled and matted at the bottom fringes from dragging along the pasture lane.
'I know you. You are the undertaker.'
'That I am, that I am,' nodding.
'You are way late.' Then, starting, 'Or you are early.'
Smiling, 'I am here only for the ghosts.'
'You are late.'
'Not necessarily.' Peeking inside his cloak at a loud wind-up clock, 'I am on time.'
'These violets,' shaking his head, 'Where they rise from. A mystery. They were her favorite.'
The wind came up, passing like a train, the violets rolled in a melodic wave, the stillness returned, the sound of the wind waving goodbye from the back of a speeding caboose. He looked at the undertaker just as the stranger was awkwardly trying to hide his hands.
'Ah, you did that.'
'Yes, I suppose.'
'I thought it was Tatyana,' he mused sadly.
'Of course it was the girl,' the gaunt man consoled.
He looked in the undertaker's magpie-black eyes.
'She's here?,' he said, barely above a whisper.
'This is the thing I do,' he yawned.
'To bury once and for all, my friend,' pointing a finger to accent the once.
'Couldn't get it right the first time, heh, old man?'
The undertaker jumped slightly forward as though slapped on the back.
'She's laughing. She loves that,' he murmured out of the side of his mouth.
Move your clocks forward for DST.
15 minutes tonight, 18 minutes Sunday, 13 minutes Monday, and 14 minutes Tuesday.
out of the pan
Black pan simmers on low, not high
chopped onions sizzle a smiling cry
minced garlic swoons
to a lip-smacked sigh
bacon grease leaps out pan
into a fiery kitchen flight
too many cooks
There's a place I know. A diner, Paco's, New York, sits out of the way off the street, where natural light never shines. Green sided brick front, not painted, green from moss. Small lemon-yellow sign. Paco's. I'll take you there. The place is cockroach clean. I went through a wrong door once and found myself in the kitchen. I don't know - should short-tempered, short order cooks have access to a sharp knife in a 107º Fahrenheit room? Three men wielding cleavers in an oven could get messy, yes. Maybe the cockroaches are anxious and go elsewhere. Yes, I was back there, briefly, long enough to see the rage in those wild magpie-black eyes.
It's pot luck. But the food's the best. And with all that screaming. 'I'll show you, you pork chop!' They take on the names of what they are preparing. Must be a trade secret, yes, it's funny. 'Hey, salmon, I show you who's boss!' Or, 'You! You stay away from me, stuffed eggplant! Or, 'What you want, Tournedos Rossini, heh!? Well, you get the picture.
Yet, there's never an empty seat, place is always packed, but I'll show you, my little lomo saltado. Once saw Joe Pesci there. Stayed clear from telling him he was funny. But get this - to meet any one of those three cooks on the street - like the one, the owner, Paco, white bible carrier with a sweet, gentle, old dog disposition. Saw him once in deep conversation with a pigeon half-way across a crosswalk oblivious to a horn-honking finger-flipping old woman. But at work, geez, how close with those clinched razor-sharp implements these three are from big block letters glaring angrily up from bound stacks at the newsstand screaming Berserk Bloody Broth?
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