RED EYES: A POETIX

Well. That was bloody exhausting. And as the Chatelaine reaches for the goblet of wine at 7:58 a.m., her ears ring from the ghastly sound of

the Dance of
Why? Listen
all

you nightingales! Why?
I curse
all

you nightingales! Why?
En compas/s!
I

thought it was
only a
story.

I thought the
story was
mine:

a bird caws
from my
mirror.

My mirror spits
out bloodied
feathers.

Fortunately since I have zero interest in suffering, I think "La Loca" is the last of these flamenco hay(na)ku. Will now gather them up to edit into a Dusie chap. Oh you lucky nightingale lovers -- forthcoming this summer, Moi chap entitled

THE SINGER And Others

Sip. At 8 a.m., the great wine from Spain: Vega Sicilia...

Let me share some history as I greet the brilliantly-lit Napa morning by getting blotto: when I was invited to do a chap for Dusie (my lovely Swiss publisher -- tossing in this parenthetical since I love the notion of having a Swiss publisher), I swiftly came up with an idea which resulted from scumbling from an earlier book. Easy enough. So did the project and sat on it until it was time to put it together for Dusie.

"Easy enough," I thought and thought so smugly. Sip. And that's when the poker-playing angels got mischievous (and probably a bit mad at Moi).

"We don't think so!" said angels sez.

And they cracked the whip into having your Would-Be-Lazy-Chatelaine crack out a dozen flamenco hay(na)ku sequences.

Well blather and yadda. And I couldn't stop until my back muscles got as hard as the big rock that is Galatea's mountain.

Fortunately, at noon today, I get an hour-and-a-half deep massage from one of the greatest Russian exports to the U.S. -- strongly-muscled Zamyra. Toast to Zamyra. May Zamyra massage the flamenco out of my flesh, out of my veins. Sip.

And the angels pause the poker game, look at each other, and cackle softly: "We don't think so..."