From: donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,rec.arts.books
Subject: Well-Met in Manhattan, part 1
Date: 9 Nov 92 16:59:59 GMT
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

It all started with me, lazing about in my Italian chalet on the side of a
lovely green hill.  Sir John True through some subtle means or other, had
made clear that he was in desperate need of meeting Matisse.  I, of course,
was the only one on this side who could arrange such a meeting.  Similarly,
Lily O'Toole (aka sheila) felt a perverse yet indomitable desire to have
her poetry illustrated by Magritte.

As luck would have it, both souls were drifting about in the same general
location--namely, Manhattan.  I told them to fly over to my chalet and stay
the night, after which we would proceed with our seance.

The night was peaceful enough, but they were a bit taken aback that the
seance would have to take place on mainland USA, especially since they had
just flown from there.  But I calmed them down, explaining that there was a
particularly lovely ferry boat that left my stream every morning and would
provide us with a pleasant and leisurely ride to the Big City.

While we leaned against the rail, whistling etc., and I slowly overcame the
melancholy feeling of having my dream of sheila suddenly fade into a
reality of sheila, (I eventually took comfort in the fact that even her
lovely body, as I perceived it, was an illusion of sheila, just as her words
were, and that, as always, reality had nothing to do with it.  Write to
douglas with subject "Re:  Noumena" for more information on this and
similar phenomena), I shared with my new companions a poem I had scribbled
on the deck with a straight razor (it turns out that sheila is terribly
fond of knives, blades, etc.).  It went as follows:


Nietzsche, with Eyes O'Blue,
wandered the sun-pierced sand,
waiting for the bleached hand
of a lover true to touch
the inner madness of the man.

This is when the woman with the desert's hair
dared to say this is no beach,
there is no sea to reach,
no Styx to cross, just hot dry air.
Nietzsche checked into the asylum later that evening.


Lily looked at me in wide-eyed amazement (yes, she has wide eyes!) and
explained that this was just the dream she had last night.
	"Wait," I said, "let me guess.  Just before he checked into the
institution, you made lunatic, empassioned love."
	"Yes!  However did you know?"
	"It's a favorite dream of Nietzsche's."
	"But it was my dream!" insisted Lily/sheila.
	"Yes, I know, but he was playing, too.  Dead people can DO that."
	"Oh, enough of this," growled Kate, my dominatrix, who accompanied
us on this trip.  "I could tell you dreams that would cause your eyes to
fall out of your face.  In fact, in half-sleep on this rail I dreamed of a
frightening rogue with a silver beanie who would have stopped your heart
from beating had you seen him."
	"My God!" I cried.  "Mark Taranto!"
	"Yes, that was it.  But he didn't look at all Canadian."
	I was ashamed at my own oversight.  We were sailing directly into
the realm of Cardinal Taranto, the Mortal Enemy of all O'Tooles!  But just
then we saw something swimming towards us.
	"Pull me up, would you?" it asked in kindly fashion.
	"Who are you, first?" I asked suspiciously.
	"Tom Wachtel [pronounced Voktill or somesuch]."
	Needless to say (after a few minutes' heated discussion) we dropped
down a rope ladder...


The Adventure will continue...

(by the way, Tom, feel free to portray the next portion of the journey
yourself!  You know how treacherous my memory is...)


Yours,

Posthumous O'Toole
-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /