Liberators
Hell, I (I) can play better than that with two fingers!
^,^
ZEPATA AND EL DAYO
Instalment 2
Zepata dismounts El Dayo
at two on the day of
coming home
to his sanctuary and
real woman
The sun so hot it beats tremors
through Dayo's hide
Zepata's left hand
resting on Dayo
feels the ripples
the only signs Dayo
gives
and they are
involuntary
that the steady horse
requires surcease
from the relentless
sun
The shells in the crossed bandoliers
need to be pulled
into the shade of
Zepata's chest out of
the sun like turning meat
on a spit
their heat searing
through leather and denim
weltering Zepata's
lash-scarred back
'Law-key they not
'splode'
Murmurs Zepata
Zepata says easy boy
and swings his
studded
boot over and down to
the ground
and pulls the
cartridge-bulging
saddle bags off the
horse's back
Dayo knows
it is for siesta he
does this
needed if they are
to make it to their
real women
Yes Dayo has a woman
too
Stallion El Dayo
Zepata takes his canteen
swishes it around to
read
its contents
smiles and pours a
long stream
of water into Dayo's
sand-crusted
spittle-dried
sneering snorting
determined maw
The stallion stops drinking before
he is sated for he is
the
saviour's mount and
El Dayo has a duty to
the master
How can but a mere
horse know this?
Zepata swings the canteen
above his gaping
mouth
and waters himself
long
the water swilling
over his dusty
whisker-rasped
weather-beaten face
as well as flowing
down Zepata's
parched throat
But he stops short of emptying
the canteen
Stops because the
last draught
Is saved for El Dayo
who must insure
arrival
on this last leg of
their pilgrimage
A promise to Real
Woman Irena:
Zepata will return
The journey to the safety of the hideaway
and the strong
compelling scent
of his real woman
and Dayo's mare in
season
The fleeing man and
horse
will make it by
nightfall
if they rest now
They will need the rest
for homecoming
oh yes oh yes
they will need the rest
for homecoming
When the sun is past its apogee
Zepata and Dayo
emerge from the shade
of
the rocks
two similarly
stinking creatures
Two more hours
and they'll be home
By now the grade is
so steep
that the stones
loosened from their
tentative resting
places by Dayo's
driving hooves
clatter down the
mountainside
musically like a xylophone
Zepata surveys the Mexican panorama
From this high up he
sees far
the land of his
ancestors
who were Indians
their blood pounding up the mountain
for Zepata and his
horse
Blood flowing upstream
Against gravity
Up Zepata's pulsing
carotids
refreshing reminding rekindling
love of freedom
love of land
love of woman
Zepata leans forward and rests
his chest on Dayo's
neck
the rider's arms
encircle the horse
and he beats out a
slow ancient rhythm
on Dayo's breastbone
It encourages his
mount
Ah Dayo Dayo Dayo
I loving you my goot
friend
We have covered
territory together
They have tried to
shoot us down
As they kill our
women and children
but they never
succeed
We take their boolets
like we take shots at
the saloon
or at the Jesuit
clinic
We take zem and we dissolve them
in Mexican blood
and we piss them out
like so much water
Eh, my friend?
Forking A, amigo
Forking A, my
hoe-worse
Zepata sleeps again
While Dayo picks a
careful way
up the ever-ensteepening
incline
weaving switchbacks
like the flight of a
nectar-seeking
half-ton butterfly
They come into the clearing
and the hasty home
made of boards and
rudimentary amenities
taken to this place
by faithful
revolutionaries
who fight at Zepata's
side
so much do they love
and protect
Zepata
No one reaches Zepata's aerie
No one they vow as
they wait
In their encampment
far below
And they know Zepata
needs to be
With Irena
Real woman and mare make a confluent
whinnying sound at
the sight of their men
Manes toss
Six long and lithe
legs rush
to their long-awaited merger
Dayo's breath comes quickly
and Zepata warrior
bold
sits up rampant in
the soon to be
uncinched slung-down
saddle
a rampancy like never
before
One last attention
atop Dayo
No plumb line has length
Sufficient to the
measure of his
cavernous thirsts
Irena shall bathe
Zepata
The mare shall care
for Dayo
Dayo faithful servant
To May Hee Ko's hero:
Vive Zepata
[5-19-98]
^,^
In Jutland
from Babette’s Feast
"Babette, master chef, had the ability to transform a dinner
into a kind of love affair, a love affair that made no distinction between
bodily appetite and spiritual appetite. General Galliffet said that in the past
he had fought a duel for the love of a beautiful woman. But now there was no
woman in Paris for whom he would shed his blood—except this chef."
We looked up
Babette's Feast + Karen Blixen again and the passage we referred to follows
below:
General Loewenhielm (speaking of the first time he had Cailles en Sarcophage):
"One
day in
Paris,
after I had won a riding competition, my French fellow officers invited me out
to dine at one of the finest restaurants, the Cafe Anglais. The chef,
surprisingly enough, was a woman. We were served Cailles en Sarcophage, a dish
of her own creation. General Galliffet, who was our host for the evening,
explained that this woman, the head chef, was considered the greatest culinary
genius. What we are now eating is nothing less than Cailles en Sarcophage.”
The General’s Toast:
Mercy and truth have met together. Righteousness and bliss
shall kiss one another. Man, in his weakness and shortsightness, believes he
must make choices in this life. He trembles at the risks he takes. We do know
fear. But no. Our choice is of no importance. There comes a time when your eyes
are opened. And we come to realize that
mercy
is infinite. We need only await it with confidence, and receive it with
gratitude. Mercy imposes no conditions. And, lo! Everything we have chosen has
been granted to us, and everything have rejected has also been granted. Yes, we
even get back what we rejected. For mercy and truth are met together; and
righteousness and bliss shall kiss one another.”
-
Karen Blixen -
^,^
PS:
Just in (late last night)
from Dr. Tom Bentz
again of Whitefish Bay, WI
Dear Remaining Survivors of the Trump Unreality
Show:
I must go
now
in dread
to bed
then head
from Amerika
to Canada
to Antarctica
or wherever Tsar Trump
cannot get, gag and garrote me.
After the fear-and-hate-mongering and cleaving-of-Clinton in
Cleveland,
heaving and leaving the Dingaling Don Who Would Be King
(according to today's poll)
an even odds choice to preside over the disintegration of this
nation,
I turn in for the night
mares ...
Dead Bentz Talking
