Lorelei Lee

'I know you. Double Dickel on the rocks. I never forget a drink.'

'And I never forget an Oola.'

First of all, the drink - well rock my soakin' socks! - exists:

1oz George Dickel Tennessee Whiskey, 3/4 oz Southern Comfort, 1/4 oz lime juice, 1 oz bourbon, 4 oz lemonade, 1/2 oz Pimm's no. 1. This is fit for a writer, no?

As for the movie, must see. Must. See. This one makes it onto my all-time faves list. Douglas is stellar as a pot-smokin' professor/author with major writer's non-block who is strung out while strung along a series of strange happenstance ripe for the printed page.

Downey Jr stars as well. As a sometimes gay publicist. Too good.

Let us go

Let us go to a place where we are never turning

away from the sun, a place where its rays would

follow us at every angle, angles of mountainside

and volcanic cliffs forged from a sea distracted

by the nymphs that danced on its shores.

Let us go to a place where we feel the tilt of the Earth

inside of us, shaking passports and forgotten worries

from our pockets.

Let us go to a place all in ruins,

where columns finger the tresses

of the sky, tangling the firmament,

waking the Gods who would look upon us

with disdain if it weren’t for the chariot

we’d run like the blazes to the nearest museum

where my love for you is writ in a golden book

that is encased in glass, safe from flash photography.

Sa beauté lui attire l'attention de tous

Song of the Day - Voyage agreables!

Tasseography

Black assam

was perfume for

the throat, eating

flowers down to

their crocus;

Green:

unfurled flags

or seaweed

for a mariner sipping

tobacco washed up

on anchored saucers.

Serpentine, headless,

stingrays dove

at the pearls

of sugar

buried

in the heeltap,

no daylight

at the rim,

just a raft of lemon,

its fleshy planks

striated, curdling pink,

sloshing golden water.

Lilliputians

of a master guild

were doused. On

cinnamon-stick

scaffolding

their eyelash brushes

rendered the globe

(around it:

fat sultans, the Queen

reclining,

an Assyrian princess

with a parasol and

tambourine,

an Egyptian king

costumed in feathers -

of orange pekoe -

armed with arrow and bow,

an alligator at his feet).

Their art was soundless.

They wore

flippers as they worked,

carried paddles –

ready to voyage to

the other side

of the porcelain canvas,

through the breakfasty sea,

where they traced

the zodiac

through that

stained lagoon,

dripping star scents

and crumbs of the sun

into the paint.

Oxygen

for the boil

was cold water, a

serous alchemy.

Gulped down to

leafy starfish,

it was too late

not to empty

what they were deep

into making good fortunes of.

____________________________

A varied collection of poems chosen by Garrison Keillor for his radio show, Prairie Home Companion. Great for the bedside.

Where the air is rarefied...rare indeed

Musing

the snow today is like crème brulee

it cracks with sugary crumbs

like spoons our boots sink in the stuff

that the grass beneath eats up

Vous et nul autre

May 2006

First day in Paris: Jet-lagged from the ferries and planes we left behind in Greece, we are out in the rain and, of course, the cheap umbrella we buy in Montmarte folds up into a smile. Fous-toi, Paris.

Rain stops and is replaced by winds strong enough to blow you to the Thames. Yes, the Thames, NOT the Seine. Overexaggeration is key here...As we walk <and walk and walk> our way to Notre Dame - Saints alive, it looks closer on the map, is it a trick? I need another croissant! - Paris says 'Fous-toi' back. A nasty speck of something or other goes whack into Rockstar's eye. Oh, there's a cafe! Rockstar is now alternately rubbing his eye with a knuckle and pulling at his eyelid.

By the time we reach the cathedral, a croissant has been inhaled and Rockstar is blind in his left eye. Photos are quickly taken of the facade and then it's wife leading husband back to the train. Fous-toi, gargoyles.

Second day in Paris, amelioration: Rockstar swears a vestige of that 'something or other' is still at home under his eyelid. Eyeball is a dry marble in his head. But he's a good sport and we carry on, arriving early at the Louvre - there are only 15 or so people ahead of us in line. Should we go see her first? Rockstar shrugs. Ok then, it's our plan of attack. We go in just as it opens, run the gauntlet of signs that lead to her grin and soak in her presence that while so pop-culture cliche-ish is really quite remarkable. From any angle, her eyes follow you. Her eyes say to you, oui, la beaute est en toute chose.

Etonnant.

Off the jardins de Touilleres, tower Eiffel looms in the distance. Again, much further away than expected. There it is through the trees! <click> Wait! This is a great angle, the spire looks as if it's growing out of that Edith Wharton-esque townhouse. <click> At its heavy feet, we look up into Eiffel's skeletal belly: elevators filled with tourists and restaurants too expensive to make the standing in line worthwhile. Clouds billow and blow by in constant succession. Women preen and primp and languish on steps and ledges as their amours snap their pictures. Trim gardens radiate in one direction while arabesque lamposts and fountains line up and spill over in another. I want to buy some miniature towers - at least three. Want to share a croissant with me? Cliche. Cliche. Cliche. And, it's off to more museums we go.

Merci, Paris. Perhaps next time we'll actually see you through your glittering 'something or other.'

'You expected to know to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person had died for no reason.'

- A Moveable Feast, E Hemingway

Pedestrian

On our way to the grocer’s

We happened upon

A snapping turtle. He lay

In the middle of the road

Immobilized by the sun,

Not able to turn

Back to the curb,

Back to his molten pond.

His barbed mouth

Parted as we neared.

A black tongue

Did not pant or bark.

Only a hiss

Issued from the shell of him:

An Egyptian curse

Released from a pried tomb

Without clasps

Or locks to pick, nor booby traps.

His forehead

Never mirrored

The heat and his stomach

Never sighed.

He lay ready to exert

A century of effort into one step,

His elephantine legs

Buried to the knees in gravel,

His brontosauric tail

Susurrating behind.