Sunday, March 6, 2011
The kitten Giuseppe Verdi is smaller than nearly everything
Woe betide the cheeser who does not understand this.
Dreams are smaller than the night they are born to,
As the Succubus can tell you, they contain the soul.
Doom awaits the sleeper who denies this.
It is not the light which makes the morning,
But the presence or absence of this or that face,
Felt the more keenly
The fresher the change.
The kitten Giuseppe Verdi worries about none of this.
He has no mother,
But he has a waitress
And a panther to play with.
Mrs. Langtry's talent was smaller than Bernhardt's or Terry's,
But her loveliness brought roses and proposals from the fine gentlemen in the front row.
Theater is illusion,
And the Jersey Lily knew how to work it.
The play ran for one hundred and eleven weeks--
No one now living was there to see it.
The theater has disappeared, replaced by a coffee shop.
The kitten pounces.
The Succubus waits.
A waitress laughs.
The Dark-Haired Chick sits in one of the booths, dressed entirely in black,
With a panther stretched out at her boots
Like a thrown rose.
for One Shoot Sunday
photograph: Lily Langtry