For Miss Alister's Birthday
REAL ESTATE
Chi O gots her earth, wind, and fiery elements all in a filigree’d dither. Vandy said no, Emory, too, ‘saps said come on down, cher, we got the ship out on the foam for you, baby. Cher she was; cher she did, all 5’7” of her flaxen, waxy sugarbaby self. Nestlings need not apply to the temple—she was looking for daddy all the way.
Bristol Crème was first to ponder, last to lurk. He always be takin’ his time, self-management learned the hard way. Tether Dubonnet was Tutor the First. Gams to heaven, pert pertness into the Beyond. A better first teacher they never was. BC was oft to ponder the dereliction of his ways, but never of a Sabbath. He knew his God, and she weren’t no plunderer. Crinkle in the eyes when she see BC comin’.
Lurk turned to committed desire: this will I taste, this will I have. Chi O babbled in lunch lines with the big Boogaloo, turned a smart sassy ass out the door his way, but sassy ass was assessin’—this weren’t the Big Giveaway. Cool Hand Luke counted eggs; Chi had her own inventory in mind, and BC was on the bubble: he just might have to play in to the Dance.
Comes late Autumn. Big Dance party down on West Capitol, steps of the Governor’s Mansion. BC’s gotta uncle twelve floors up in the Lamar Life, spies Ms O in all her post-Labor Day splendor, hot and bothered with a dandy givin’ her Mr. White on Ms. Rice. Sticky stuff indeed. Pouncin’ time, thinks B, Superman couldn’t fly half as fast down the Lamar stairs as he did. He was ponce’d in black tux, tie loose, cummerbund flashing. Literally flashing, they was lights in the folds. Tell me I ain’t Michael Jackson in his pretty days, Flashy thinks to himself.
Chi catches the breeze of that (de)scent, twiddles east of Mr. Sticky, west to the flowering B. It’s a big breeze on the downtown bounce, all bigboy whirling, fancypants Cassandra Hometown Girl Wilson-sexy with her new moons shining.
O: “Thought you’d never—”
B: “You thought?”
O: “I’m just sayin’, freshman comp ain’t exactly the—”
B: “And why not?”
O: “Gotta point. You got anything else?”
Breeze caught the lilt of that hemline. As he’d suspected, Tether-gams indeed. Seconds from Marilyn standing over the gusty vent, she spun, headed courtside to the Blue. Centuries could not have done better for such fine evolution. B nixed all the other Tutors—he was down for the count.
Chi O gots her earth, wind, and fiery elements all in a filigree’d dither. Vandy said no, Emory, too, ‘saps said come on down, cher, we got the ship out on the foam for you, baby. Cher she was; cher she did, all 5’7” of her flaxen, waxy sugarbaby self. Nestlings need not apply to the temple—she was looking for daddy all the way.
Bristol Crème was first to ponder, last to lurk. He always be takin’ his time, self-management learned the hard way. Tether Dubonnet was Tutor the First. Gams to heaven, pert pertness into the Beyond. A better first teacher they never was. BC was oft to ponder the dereliction of his ways, but never of a Sabbath. He knew his God, and she weren’t no plunderer. Crinkle in the eyes when she see BC comin’.
Lurk turned to committed desire: this will I taste, this will I have. Chi O babbled in lunch lines with the big Boogaloo, turned a smart sassy ass out the door his way, but sassy ass was assessin’—this weren’t the Big Giveaway. Cool Hand Luke counted eggs; Chi had her own inventory in mind, and BC was on the bubble: he just might have to play in to the Dance.
Comes late Autumn. Big Dance party down on West Capitol, steps of the Governor’s Mansion. BC’s gotta uncle twelve floors up in the Lamar Life, spies Ms O in all her post-Labor Day splendor, hot and bothered with a dandy givin’ her Mr. White on Ms. Rice. Sticky stuff indeed. Pouncin’ time, thinks B, Superman couldn’t fly half as fast down the Lamar stairs as he did. He was ponce’d in black tux, tie loose, cummerbund flashing. Literally flashing, they was lights in the folds. Tell me I ain’t Michael Jackson in his pretty days, Flashy thinks to himself.
Chi catches the breeze of that (de)scent, twiddles east of Mr. Sticky, west to the flowering B. It’s a big breeze on the downtown bounce, all bigboy whirling, fancypants Cassandra Hometown Girl Wilson-sexy with her new moons shining.
O: “Thought you’d never—”
B: “You thought?”
O: “I’m just sayin’, freshman comp ain’t exactly the—”
B: “And why not?”
O: “Gotta point. You got anything else?”
Breeze caught the lilt of that hemline. As he’d suspected, Tether-gams indeed. Seconds from Marilyn standing over the gusty vent, she spun, headed courtside to the Blue. Centuries could not have done better for such fine evolution. B nixed all the other Tutors—he was down for the count.
Labels: blueing
posted by murat11 at 7:42 AM
11 Comments:
Happy Birthday, Miss Allister. That is some bubbly real estate there. Definitely funky Chi-town.
Seconding the birthday wishes A
Paschal - ooh cher, filigree and dither, Mr. White on Ms. Rice. Sticky stuff indeed...
centuries could not have done better and I do not believe that YOU are down for the count. fun dance this one with michael jackson flash and all...
she will love it
Dee: Some shiny piece of funk on the way to work, can't remember the song now, but the beat of this piece started pulsing - it was a gloriously beautiful morning - slipped into the classroom before the day's whoosh began, fifteen minute window, voila! Mucho fun to write . . .
Isn't it the most glorious gift when something just bubbles to the surface, jarred lose by a bit of song or view from a car window. No angst, just flows right on through the keyboard and takes on a life of it's own, fully realized from a grain of synapse making contact in a new way.
Amen to that, Sister Dee.
So cute and I'm happy with myself that I got it, even though sometimes it was just like reading dialect, Paschal hehe ;)
Happy birthday to Miss Alister!
And you can be sure even though Ms. O sailed from snow to foam that she wasn’t wearin’ no white shoes on that post-Labor Day. Pro’ly why Marilyn got the grate job and Ms. O spun smack into a seven year itch in a pair of blue suedes. Ain’t no accountin’ for good taste here, and timin’s ever’thang, wild man said. Ms. O just rolled her eyes and jabbed B’s spare rib with her elbow, pointed at the sherry with her chin. C’mon, B, honey, lez have us a toast to another year of Fat Tuesdays.
Thank you, too, Teresa and Dee. You iz all the shiz to show. Me, I’m always found downin’ the leftover drink, dips and chips after ever’body’s come and long gone…
Glad you had some devil-fun, DM. These narrators in my mind, they's no accountin' for them: they just gots to sez it how they sez it.
Lady A: A happy cumpleanos to you again. You can trot Miz O out of the Montgomery Ward catalog any old way you wants to see her. Me, she was nothing but fine, and that Blue, well, that Blue, that Blue was, that Blue was . . .
Oh you and your sighing past tense blue, Mr. Boo…
Hey, Ms. Mood, you weren’t here when I left my note yesterday. Sure is good to see you as always : ) Thanks for the HB wish!
Birthday Girl: All I'm sayin's this: I was keeping it fairly in the box until the Blue came up: at that point there was a crowd of Blue-pretenders, claimants, the Blue This, the Blue That, the Blue The Other, so I figured I'd just lose the specificity, and go with the Blue . . . I had the Blue Cafe (down on Jackson's West Capitol Street) most in mind, a place I loved, too soon gone, but that's just me.
Hope you're still birthdaying it . . .
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