From: donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,rec.arts.books
Subject: Well-Met in Manhattan cont'd.
Date: 18 Dec 92 01:09:20 GMT
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ  07054


When last I posted in this vein, I had left Candlestick in the gullet of a
fifty foot taranto.

The next thing I new, gentle drops were pecking at my cheeks and a head 
loomed above me:  I could not categorize here all that passed through my
mind, but some--

first, that Cardinal Taranto was leaning o'er me, hungry and indignant.

second, that this lovely face was Candlestick--or the spit-forth remnants
of Candlestick!

third, that this was Kate hovering menacingly, trying to wake me up.

And, lo! the third was true.  I had fallen asleep just as the rest and 
merely dreamed the Taranto Monstrosity.  Candlestick was thereby still in
the hands of Urdus.  My feelings were of course mixed.

But why did we awake?  Why did not this Taranto spell vanquish us 
completely?  The rain, gently falling!  (Do not think, my brethren, that
I have waited this long just so all involved would forget the weather.
Truly did I feel that precious water)

and there, on the ground, this inscribed:

rain reins not in the reign of other rain,
so raining is not such reigning that can't rain,
so please don't rein yourself, rain, but rain, yourself.

Some kind soul had invoked the rain with street chalk and a little 
cleverness.  You could perhaps guess who this was.  Otherwise, you won't
know.

And on we proceeded, the yellow thick glow even clearer in this freshly
misted weather.

'til finally we came upon a faltering streetlamp.  This was our glow? 
There was no other.  I wept, being the sensitive soul that I am, and Kate
glowered.

Then it was suddenly night.
But it was not night.
No time had passed.
Yet it was dark and our eyes had to adjust.
We all marvelled at the sight.  Perhaps even Mistress Kate.  (not Catmull,
who by the way is quite lovely in a b&w photograph)

There assembled in a cave I instantly recognized as The Other Side, were
the following Dramatis Personae:

Pluto, dressed in lots of silver shiny chrome.
Neitzsche
God
Magritte
Matisse
The Wicked Witch of the East (not Jeannie! and not Margaret Hamilton!)
Cardinal Taranto's future ghost
Einstein
Freddie Mercury

Plus, it turned out that the living Taranto, who was creeping up on us, had 
also been pulled here somehow.

"But we haven't even started the seance yet," said Sir True, somewhat 
disappointed.

"Oh, self-centered one," said Pluto, checking the fluid levels on his 
internal combustion laser gun (cyberpunks are so nostalgic...), "it is WE
who have held a seance summoning YOU."

Meanwhile Taranto's ghost and the Witch were just having a gay old time
in a cave-niche, chatting and gossiping, etc.  Cardinal Taranto (living)
asked, bewildered, why she was talking to herself.  And then he asked how
I could be present before my own ghost.  (always asking questions, just 
like Dad).  Of course my ghost was nowhere to be seen, so I really don't
know what he was talking about.  Besides, I was kinda staring at Freddie
(I'm a big fan).

sheila immediately got to business and asked Magritte to illustrate her
poetry.  He agreed but stipulated that for him to do so he would have to
have already done so, since he was dead...which means ipso facto that any
poem sheila writes, try as she might to do otherwise, would be ABOUT a 
Magritte painting, since Magritte undeniably comes before Sheila.

"Why have you summoned us?"  I asked self-importantly.

"Yeah, well we were having a party and it was just a goof," explained 
Einstein.  "You know how it is.  God offered to play some craps with me
but I was against it on principle."

Unfortunately, Matisse refused to talk to any of us. He was quite uppity
what with the big show going on in Manhattan and him selling-out his 
tickets and all.  John was terribly depressed, so I suggested we all go
home.

"No," said Cardinal Taranto, living, "First I must tell you my Unforgivable
Sin."

All, dead and living, glued our ears to him (with Elmer's, but they didn't
stick properly), except for ghost-of-Taranto, who was clearly bored.


More later...


Yours,
Posthumous O'Toole

p.s.  This segment is heavily indebted to ideas sent to me by sheila, so
co-author credits are due her.  (not meaning to imply that this is Fiction,
I merely forgot certain elements due to the stress of returning to the 
Underworld, and sheila's notes helped prod such memories to vividness)


-- 
Chucklehead awaits the return of his .sig
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems