(no subject)
A Hotel in Clifton along Central Parkway
I was thinking about you Pete Limpelli, sepia on your face, blotchy liverspotty wrinkles lathered over your slender angry frame. Oh yes, those kids owed Carmine fifteen hundred - you are so Pavlovian. Drool from under your aviators, I can see you Pete Limpelli, grim and winged tipped - supine and duck footed, humming bad TV in the background. Are you practicing for your wake? Some time in the future, someday back in Queens?
I asked the clerk at the desk, he said he didn’t know, didn’t know how long you planned to stay. Told me under the duress of a cattle prod that you threw a thousand dollar wad across the counter for a week and some quiet.
I walked to Sitwell’s. In there they played Edith Piaf too loud, if only for her Frenchness. I wanted to ask some of the waitstaff, but I waited and waited, and then left.
You know, Pete Limpelli, you have dealt with Henge in the past. Why wager on Ed Groat? He’s only got the canoe, and the deerskin unitard. Is it his lack of pretension? Can the virtuousity of form, defeat the viciousness of matter? Pete, level with me, are you hiding pink eye? Or is it the pain from all the mincia morte?
William Comparetto
© 2007