Tzara
Continental
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2005
- Posts
- 7,643
By the look on her face, I knew she was really really excited. Or, I guess maybe, aghast.
"Tex Zed?!" Her skin had turned a rather odd color. I put that down to the endorphin rush of her enthusiasm.
"Yeah," I said, "My thinking is, ingratiate yourself with the crowd. Like, you know, when after that last poem, I say Hook 'em Horns!" I enthusiastically demonstrated the hand sign.
She grasped my upthrust hand in both of hers and carefully folded the middle finger down, then raised the index and little fingers. "Well," she said cheerily, like the practiced teacher that she was, "let's just get that expression right." Then she sighed heavily, and I thought I heard her mutter something like "Dear God, please just let him be assaulted and not killed."
I had a long pull from the Shiner Bock that was sitting on the railing. Wiped my brow. It's goddam fuckin' hot in Austin. I'd never done a slam before, but she'd suggested it.
"OK," she said, looking me square in the eye. "I have to ask this. What are you thinking about with these clothes?"
This hurt me. Hurt me bad. I'd paid a lot of money for these Tony Lama snakeskin boots even though they made my feet hurt. They did make me just taller than her, though, since she was wearing sandals, and I was grateful for that. The bolo tie was probably cinched too tight and the large turquoise clasp made me look jaundiced. The Stetson I wore was perhaps a size or two too big. It rested on my ears and glasses. I probably looked like the cover photo for Elvis Costello Does the Statler Brothers.
"I..."
"Well, never mind. Too late to do anything about that." She picked up my notes, which were lying scattered on the table.
Her brow furrowed. Not a good sign. "What," she exclaimed, holding up my notes, "is this?"
"Uh," I said, "my poem. Orestes the Gunslinger. Kind of Myth-Tex."
She rolled her eyes.
"It'll work," I said, "I think it's good! I fingered the pearl-handled revolvers I wore for show (a nice double-holstered rig) and began to recite:
"Tex Zed?!" Her skin had turned a rather odd color. I put that down to the endorphin rush of her enthusiasm.
"Yeah," I said, "My thinking is, ingratiate yourself with the crowd. Like, you know, when after that last poem, I say Hook 'em Horns!" I enthusiastically demonstrated the hand sign.
She grasped my upthrust hand in both of hers and carefully folded the middle finger down, then raised the index and little fingers. "Well," she said cheerily, like the practiced teacher that she was, "let's just get that expression right." Then she sighed heavily, and I thought I heard her mutter something like "Dear God, please just let him be assaulted and not killed."
I had a long pull from the Shiner Bock that was sitting on the railing. Wiped my brow. It's goddam fuckin' hot in Austin. I'd never done a slam before, but she'd suggested it.
"OK," she said, looking me square in the eye. "I have to ask this. What are you thinking about with these clothes?"
This hurt me. Hurt me bad. I'd paid a lot of money for these Tony Lama snakeskin boots even though they made my feet hurt. They did make me just taller than her, though, since she was wearing sandals, and I was grateful for that. The bolo tie was probably cinched too tight and the large turquoise clasp made me look jaundiced. The Stetson I wore was perhaps a size or two too big. It rested on my ears and glasses. I probably looked like the cover photo for Elvis Costello Does the Statler Brothers.
"I..."
"Well, never mind. Too late to do anything about that." She picked up my notes, which were lying scattered on the table.
Her brow furrowed. Not a good sign. "What," she exclaimed, holding up my notes, "is this?"
"Uh," I said, "my poem. Orestes the Gunslinger. Kind of Myth-Tex."
She rolled her eyes.
"It'll work," I said, "I think it's good! I fingered the pearl-handled revolvers I wore for show (a nice double-holstered rig) and began to recite:
Give me my pearl-handled gun, Apollo's gift,
where with my Colt I should defend myself
against these godless dolts, yea, even if
unto to my father. I am not yet mad.
A mortal hand will wound one of these
goddesses or tramps, unless they vanish
from my sight. Do not heed me, do not mark
the armored shaft of my far-shooting steel.
It is as ready to wing its flight. What! Do ye
linger still? Spread your pinions, skim the sky.
I do blame those oracles of Phoebus. And in time
I wear this Kevlar vest and wonder. Why?
"I think I will sit in the back," she said, walking toward the door. "Be calm. Don't worry if you can't see me. I'll," she coughed lightly, "be there rooting for you."where with my Colt I should defend myself
against these godless dolts, yea, even if
unto to my father. I am not yet mad.
A mortal hand will wound one of these
goddesses or tramps, unless they vanish
from my sight. Do not heed me, do not mark
the armored shaft of my far-shooting steel.
It is as ready to wing its flight. What! Do ye
linger still? Spread your pinions, skim the sky.
I do blame those oracles of Phoebus. And in time
I wear this Kevlar vest and wonder. Why?
, just to see them in action, yummmmm ....
