Lorca-Hemingway is a fixture at the cafe.
His blood consists of La Marseillaise and dove-moons.
It pounds through his body like a glorious parade.
When I see him, I walk with back bent backwards,
slinking like a cartoon cat,
short of breath, tail-talking, stupid, exalted, way obvious.
Hand him your copy, he'll sign it in terse bluebirds.
He is his own hotel room, there's always
some blowsy blonde on the bed, quietly detonating.
Young men line up near his table, as if there were a war
or a desperate national need for Gypsy violins.
A waiter serves orange suns from embossed tin trays.
I paint Lorca-Hemingway's skin with brandy cologne,
so that all bullets turn away and take trains to Barcelona.
I send myself as a telegram into his latest masterpiece:
I am a peony petal inside a bud stop
you are a man and a girl and a secretary bird stop
angels inside you carry death and glory in little satchels stop
Now I conceal Lorca-Hemingway inside me like a trick lighter.
No one in the cafe can find him, but in the nick of time
Brett Ashley smiles with a cigarette in her lips and
I flame!
Oh yes,
I flame.
_________
for The Sunday Muse #191, where I am hosting one last time.
