The horse breathes in the city, the world of unrelenting pistons
And steam from the jingling harness, and the jangling windows
That reflect the bolting sparrows like fire arrows in the coming night,
Viennese darkness is like the smell of the chocolatier mixed with snow,
Sealed in a sachertorte with the alley-crack of the riding whip on coach,
Viennese sunshine is like the baker’s soul, rising on flashing coppers and tins.

In Vienna there are ten little girls,
a shoulder for death to cry on,
and a forest of dried pigeons.
There is a fragment of tomorrow
in the museum of winter frost.
There is a thousand-windowed dance hall.

Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this close-mouthed waltz.

Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz,
of itself of death, and of brandy
that dips its tail in the sea.

I love you, I love you, I love you,
with the armchair and the book of death,
down the melancholy hallway,
in the iris' darkened garret.

Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this broken-waisted waltz.

In Vienna there are four mirrors
in which your mouth and the echoes play.
There is a death for piano
that paints little boys blue.
There are beggars on the roof.
There are fresh garlands of tears.

Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this waltz that dies in my arms.

Because I love you, I love you, my love,
in the attic wherethe children play,
dreaming ancient lights of Hungary
through the noise, the balmy afternoon,
seeing sheep and irises of snow
through teh dark silence of your forehead.

Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this "I will always love you" waltz.

In Vienna I will dance with you
in a costume with
a river's head.
See how the hyacinths line my banks!
I will leave my mouth between your legs,
my soul in photographs and lilies,
and in the dark wake of your footsteps,
my love, my love, I will have to leave
violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons.

Autumn was an old Viennese street held up in sacrifice to the sky,
With burnt-song offerings that still see through the clouds, as they see through you.
His was cobbler craft of reed-winded flame for the foot in tune,
Amid the outsnuffed shopkeepers’ lights and the candlesmoke of midnight hours,  
Pulsing above the inner heart of the Ringstrasse
Of brass signs and paving stones, misted and mute.
His was the candelabra of wick-notes
Wanded through the windowed rooms of forested night.
His were those woods filled with doorways, bookcases, and stairs
And everything dim and warm with people, no longer there.

***

The winter sunlight played across the keyboard of crypted windows,
And in the muted under-roofs of ice and snow,
On one window, like a hand in whole rest,
The caramelized glass swallowed the flame-image of the stray redbird
And the black carriage wheels that passed.

In the long hallway of the Viennese flat,
One candle remained lit in the mouth of song.

Hey, another week whispers love to win "W" That womanly wonder I need to take a step back to "V"  just need to vent out.
I'm here not over there? Medieval times "Roman Festival" of love
I have to catch up to get to V- Valentine things are the sublime wake up take a bite the "Viennese Whirls" biscuit "The Cats Meow"
The Siamese to suit me just fine. The Valentine recruit her day of pursuit. Her lower V back to her higher love loot plays up to her **** and boots.

A victory versus the villain Mama Mia striking gold but I am a face to red like grapes. The Italian Villa making love in her red hot chinchilla. But somewhere over her sheer rainbow, he got sidetracked all the way she looks divine in her "Rosy" slingback chair. Read my lips go smack CD track "V-Valiant" multiplying like ants. She flaunts herself such a venom demonstration. The biblical (V)-sword wins her love sentimental. What aims the bow and arrow a heart is her V village daring. Quite shocking and alarming the poems red silk ties her love force the light shines romantically warm red. V Virtual reality Strawbery Sponge cake.

Her V-Valentine the first day she met him. Where she came from will we ever know? What's in the card do we win or lose to know what in store for you?

You will get to know me 
The sweets got her set
The bittersweets only yet
Plays the different drum
The Valiant V venture
Hum all *** about him
The ricochet "Russian *****"

This is not the end of the alphabet
zoomed in like the Zebra
You got me V for Visa
But Y where did the
( L)_ go we are losing some??
Alphabets 
More victories firelight sunset

Lionhearted heroic I bet
Did you throw me into Lion's den?
Refresh my L- love ******
"O" only roses pink/red sonic
Zippety do day happier
V Day the wine glasses
L-O-V- E Ecstacy

I suppose another tempting
Dose V vitamins
"Valiant Rose" Face
Such velocity
I feel pretty dancing
high castles
   "Valentine"

 Herbivore love me messy
Victorian sleeping beauty
Rose Kiss Hibiscus
Vampire rosebuds
Cherubs ****** red
Red Mercedes
Hubs of love
husbands

For the "Valiant Smart ladies"
High society noses
Pluto-Venus Starwars
V Valentino and their singles
Cappuccino in Italy Portofino
Chic centerfold V candles
Damask Rose pretentious pose

She's the V Voluptuous
Red devil ventriloquist
Pink/Wink Strawberry mousse
The Bulgarian with her cute
Pomeranian and spouse
Elephant Tusk smells
of musk E-love

"Marilyn Monroe" baguettes
Yves The Saint Laurent
So Valiant bond deep
Cut thorns of Reds
Bergdorf Blondes and
Brunettes
Valentine duet V-shape
Headset  vivacious escapes
So mindset
Never forget the one day

February 14 your
Valentine ring
heartedly set
Salute to the cadet

Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire—nil nisi divinum stabile
   est; caetera fumus—the gondola stopped, the old
   palace was there, how charming its grey and pink—
   goats and monkeys, with such hair too!—so the
   countess passed on until she came through the
   little park, where Niobe presented her with a
   cabinet, and so departed.


Burbank crossed a little bridge
  Descending at a small hotel;
Princess Volupine arrived,
  They were together, and he fell.

Defunctive music under sea
  Passed seaward with the passing bell
Slowly: the God Hercules
  Had left him, that had loved him well.

The horses, under the axletree
  Beat up the dawn from Istria
With even feet. Her shuttered barge
  Burned on the water all the day.

But this or such was Bleistein’s way:
  A saggy bending of the knees
And elbows, with the palms turned out,
  Chicago Semite Viennese.

A lustreless protrusive eye
  Stares from the protozoic slime
At a perspective of Canaletto.
  The smoky candle end of time

Declines. On the Rialto once.
  The rats are underneath the piles.
The jew is underneath the lot.
  Money in furs. The boatman smiles,

Princess Volupine extends
  A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
To climb the waterstair. Lights, lights,
  She entertains Sir Ferdinand

Klein. Who clipped the lion’s wings
  And flea’d his **** and pared his claws?
Thought Burbank, meditating on
  Time’s ruins, and the seven laws.

I want to live on a beautiful island
Where it's warm all the time
And on this island I want it to snow
Three months a year
And I want those three months to be
November, December, and March
And when it snows I need it to be seventy seven degrees
And I want the snow to stick
Here I imagine Jack Johnson, Jason Mraz, and Zach Gil will sit around playing music
They'll play from noon to around ten
That's when Kwali the local pool boy ends his shift keeping the oil out of the ocean
Kwali he plays the Ukulele and sings about beaches no one's ever been to until around midnight
When the perpetually burning bon fire dies down and the island falls asleep
As for the rest of the music here on the island
Every morning there's this old steel guitarist
He's from just south of New Orleans
A place called Under Pressure
Really it's just the hull of the broken fishing boat he was born on
But he calls it home all the same
And a kid who used to play trombone for the high school jazz band
But he picked up the harmonica after he found out chicks don't dig trombones
And the two of them sort of play old dixie
With a steel drummer who never seems to find his shirt in the morning
But you never really mind that
And on Sunday mornings this really old woman
Ssays her mom was Harriet Tubman
Which we all know is a lie
But she's got scars from head to toe so you might as well believe something
Man she wails
For two straight hours
She wails
Wails to God, to the heavens, to Jesus, Georgia and the first row of church
And when she wails her tears are a lost language from the tower of babble and we all understand it
And on Wednesday
Wednesdays
We waltz
We waltz to really old records
That we play on the only turntable on the island
That Mr. Lee drags all the way from his house to the community center with no walls
And the whole island shows up in summer dresses and Matthew Mcconaughey shirts
Even the one we call grandma
And her husband who everyone calls Uncle for some reason
Come dressed to dance
And we all leave our slippers at the door this place doesn't have
And the sand warms our feet while we waltz
Sometimes it's the Tennessee Waltz
And sometimes it's the Viennese Waltz
But most of the time it's just the waltz we all learned in eighth grade
Either way
Every Wednesday there is a beautiful girl
She's five five, maybe, five eight I don't know
I've been lying on my drivers' license since I was sixteen so I don't know how tall people really are
She's got south pacific features
But with my track record by the time I actually make it to my island she'll probably be a red head
We waltz
We waltz until the records skip
And our legs turn to Jello and all we can do is collapse in each other's arms
While the ocean tickles our toes
Our finger tips tickle each other's palms
And we let that guy in the moon do the rest
So when you see me set sail
If you can catch me you can climb on board
And if you can't
Then
Wave goodbye

I get off the Belt Parkway at Rockaway Boulevard and
Jet aloft from Idyllwild.
(I know, now called J.F. ******* K!)
Aboard a TWA 747 to what was then British East Africa,
Then overland by train to Baroness Blixen’s Nairobi farm . . .
You know the one at the foot of the Ngong Hills.
I lease space in Karen’s African dreams,
Caressing her long white giraffe nape,
That exquisite Streep jugular.
I am a ghost in Meryl’s evil petting zoo:
I haunt the hand that feeds me.

Safely back in Denmark, I receive treatment
For my third bout with syphilis at Copenhagen General.
Cured at last, I return to Kenya and Karen.
In my solitude or sleep, I go with her,
One hundred miles north of the Equator,
Arriving at Julia Child’s marijuana herb garden–
Originally Kikuyu Land, of course—
But mine now by imperial design &
California voter referendum.
(Voiceover) "I had a farm in Africa
At the foot of the Ngong Hills."
My farm lies high above the sea at 6,000 feet.
By daybreak I feel oh, oh so high up,
Near to the sun on early mornings.
Evenings so limpid and restful;
Nights oh, so cold.
Mille Grazie a lei, Signore *******!
Andiamo, Sydney, amico mio.
Let it flow like the water that lives in Mombasa.
Let it flow like Kurt Luedtke’s liquid crystal script.
We zoom in. We go close in. Going close up,
On the face of Isak Dinesen’s household
Servant and general factotum. (Full camera ******)
Karen Blixen’s devoted Muslim manservant,
Farah: “God is happy, msabu. He plays with us…”
He plays with me.  And who shall I be today?
How about Tony Manero for starters?
Good choice. Nicely done!
Geezer Manero:  old and bitter now,
Still working at the hardware store,
Twice-divorced, a chain-smoker,
Severely diabetic, a drunk on dialysis 3 times a week.
Bite me, Pop:  I never thought I was John Travolta.
But, hey, I had my shot:  “I coulda been a contenda.”
Once more, by association only,
I am a great artist again, quickly made
Near great by a simple second look.
Why, oh God? I am kvetching again.
I celebrate myself and sing the
L-on-forehead loser’s lament:
Why implant the desire and then
Withhold from me the talent?
“I wrote 30 ******* operas,”
I hear Salieri’s demented cackle.
“I will speak for you, Wolfie Babaloo;
I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.”

Must I wind up in the same
Viennese loony bin with Antonio?
Note to self:  GTF out of Austria post-haste!
I’ve been called on the Emperor’s carpet again,
My head, my decapitated Prufrock noodle,
Grown slightly bald, brought in upon a platter.
Are peaches in season?
Do I dare eat one?
I am Amadeus, ******, infantile,
An irresistible iconoclast and clown.
Wolfie:   “I am called on the imperial carpet again.
The Emperor may have no clothes but he’s got a
Shitload of ******* carpets."
Hello Girls: ‘Disco Tampons!
Staying inside, staying inside!
Wolfie: "Why have I chosen a ****** farce for my libretto?
Surely there are more elevated themes . . . NO!
I am fed to the teeth with elevated themes,
People so lofty they **** marble!"
Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis.

So, I mix paint in the hardware store by day.
I dance all night, near-great again by locomotion.
Join me in at least one of my verifiable nine lives.
Go with me across the Narrows,
Back to Lenape with the wild red men of Canarsee,
To Vlacke Bos, Boswijk & Nieuw Utrecht,
To Dutch treat Breuckelen, Red Hook & Bensonhurst,
To Bay Ridge and the Sheepshead.
Come with me to Coney Island’s Steeplechase & Luna Park, &
Dreamland (aka Brownsville) East New York, County of Kings.
If I’m lying, I’m dying.
And while we’re on the subject now,
Bwana Finch Hatton (pronounced FINCH HATTON),
Why not turn your focus to the rival for Karen’s heart,
To the guy who nursed her through the syphilis,
That old taciturn ******, Guru Farah?
Righto and Cheerio, Mr. Finch Hatton,
Denys George of that surname—
Why not visualize Imam Farah?
Farah: a Twisted Sister Mary Ignatius,
Explaining it all to your likes-the-dark-meat
Friend and ivory-trading business partner,
Berkeley (pronounced BARK-LEE) Cole.
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

Oh yeah, Tony Manero, the Bee Gees & me,
A marriage made in Brooklyn.
The Gibbs providing the sound track while
I took care of the local action.
I got more *** than a toilet seat, a Don Juan rep &
THE CLAP on more than one occasion.
Probably from a toilet seat.
Even my big brother–the failed priest,
Celibate too long and desperate now–
Even my defrocked, blue-balled brother,
Frankie, cashing in his chips at the Archdiocese,
Taking soave lessons from yours truly,
Taking notes, copying my slick moves with chicks.
It was the usual story with the usual suspects &
The usual character tests. All of which I flunk.
I choose Fitzgerald's “vast, ****** meretricious beauty,”
My jumpstart to the middle class.
I spurn the neighborhood puttana,
Mary Catherine Delvecchio: the community ****
With the proverbial heart of gold &
A backpack full of self-esteem deficits.
I opt out.  I’m hungry and leaping.
I morph again, grab *** the golden girl.
Now I’m Gatsby in a white suit,
Stalking Daisy Buchanan in East Egg,
Daisy: her voice full of money;
My green light flashing on the disco dance floor.
I, a fool for love; she, my faithless uptown girl,
Golden and delicious like the apple,
Capricious like a blue Persian cat.
My “orgiastic future” eluded me then.
It eludes me still. Time to go home again to the place
****-ant Prufrocks ponder their pathetic dying embers.
Time to assume the position:
Gazing out from some trapezoidal patch of green
At the foot of Roebling’s bridge,
Contemplating an alternative reality for myself,
A new life across the East River,
In the city that never sleeps.
I crave. I lust. I am a guinzo Eva Duarte.
I too must be a part of B.A., Buenos Aires:
THE BIG APPLE.
But I am ashamed of my luggage,
Not to mention my baggage.
It’s like that last thing Holden Caulfield said to me,
Just before he crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge,
Crossed over to Manhattan without me,
Leaving me alone again, searching for our kid sister,
Phoebe, the only one on earth we can relate to:
“It’s really hard to be roommates with people
If your suitcases are much better than theirs.”
Ow! That stung; that was a stinger.
I am smithereened by a self-guided drone,
A smart bomb full of snide antigravity,
Transformational and caustic.
My meager allotment of self-esteem
Metastasizes into something base,
Something heavy and vile.
I drop to earth like lead mozzarella.

I am unworthy, unworthy in the maximum mendicant,
Roman Catholic mea culpa sense of the word.
I am now Umberto Eco’s penitenziagite.
I am Salvatore, a demented hunchback
(Played flawlessly as a demented hunchback by Ron Perlman),
Spewing linguistic gibberish in a variety of vernaculars:
“Lord, I am not worthy to live anywhere west of the Gowanus Canal.”
By East River waters I weep bitter tears,
The promise of a promised land denied.
I am a garlic-eating Chuck Yeager,
Auguring in, burnt beyond recognition,
An ethnic trope, a defiant Private Maggio
From here and for eternity,
Forever a swarthy ethnic stereotype
Trying to escape thru a small but significant
Hole in the ozone layer above South Ozone Park,
New York, zip code 11420.
That’s right, Ozone Park.
If you don’t believe me, look it up.
GO ******* GOOGLE IT!

And I just don’t know when to quit.
So why quit there?
Work with me, fratello mio, mon lecteur.
Like you, I took the LSAT so long ago.
Why am I not a distinguished American jurist
Asking the one question that seems to be on
Everyone’s eugenic lips today:
“Aren’t three generations of imbeciles enough?”
I am Charly from Flowers for Algernon,
A slow learner with a push broom, swept up in
Some dust from Leonard Cohen’s cuff.
Lenny: a grey-beard loon himself now, singing
“Hallelujah” for fish & chips in London’s O2 Arena.
“Suzanne takes you down, Babaloo!”
At last, I am Jesus Quintana—
John Turturro stealing the movie as usual--
This time in a hair net and a jumpsuit,
"Made of a comfortable 65% polyester/35%
Cotton poplin, you can even add your own
Ribbon leg trim and monogramming
For just the right look to be one of
The Big Lebowski’s favorite characters.
Mouse-over the thumbnail below to see our actual style
(Color must be purple). Style #: 98P, Price: $55.95. On sale: $50.36.www.myjumpsuit.com."
Fortunately, I am a savvy marketeer:
I understand the artistic potential, the venal
Possibilities of product placement. Go with me
To that undiscovered country.
The humanities uncorrupted till now by
Crass gimcrack television ads. That’s right:
******* commercials smack dab in the
Middle of a ******* poem. Why not?
Great literature has always been about
Selling something, even if only an idea.
Hey, **** me, Herman Melville!
We both know the publication costs of
Moby **** were underwritten by the tattoo artists &
Harpoon manufacturers of New Bedford,
Matched by a small research grant from some
Proto-Greenpeace, Poseidon adventure in some
Great white whale-watching swinging soiree.
Murray the ******* K, pendejo!
At last, I am The Jesus, a pervert & pederast,
According to Walter Sobjak—another post-traumatic
Post Toasty, like me, still out there in the jungle,
Still in love with the smell of ****** in the morning.
My bowling buddy, Walter, comfortably far to the right of
The Dude, and Attila the *** for that matter,
But who gives a **** if Lenin was The Walrus?
(“Shut the **** up, Buscemi!”)
“Once you hang a right at Hubert Humphrey,”
Said the streets of 1968 Chicago,
"It’s all ******* fascism anyway.”
That creep could roll, though, and as we know so well:
“Nobody ***** with The Jesus.”
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

INCOMING!
I just heard from an old girlfriend who is miles away,
Teaching school in Navajo Land.
The Big Rez:  a long day’s interstate katzenjammer,
A Route 66 nightmare by car, but by email,
Just down the block and round the corner.
I had previously closed an email to her with a frivolous
“Say hello to my stinky friend.”
It was a total non-sequitur, an iconic-moronic,
Ace Ventura-mutant line from Scarface,
Which may have meant–in my herbal lunch delirium—
That she should say hi to some mutual acquaintance
We mutually loathe, Or, perhaps an acknowledgement that she–
My surrogate Cameron Diaz–has a new **** buddy,
Of whom I am insanely jealous.
Or maybe it was a simple Seinfeld “about nothing.”
Who knows what goes on in that twisted *****’s head?
She spends the next two hours in a flood of funk,
A deluge of insecurity.
A veritable Katrina ****** of self-consciousness,
Interpreting my inane nonsense in terms of vaginal health.

Hey, you want to ruin a woman’s day?
Tell her, her **** smells.

humming tunes, singing blues, dancing jewels
miss looking for love is dancing all over your leather shoes
over uneven pavement, over failed engagements
i sent your ring back, i couldn't bear to see it, nor sell it

even now, my six-eight time signatures are still bringing
your custom-length tailcoats to a Viennese waltzing
all while your upper-echelon friends keep pretending
like they don't find satisfaction in my subtle mourning

tonight is all humming tunes, singing blues, and dancing jewels  
i am still lingering, still humming our tunes, still singing our blues,
i am still feigning ignorance, and my finger is still missing a jewel,
i am still center stage, but someone else dances with you

In left footed underwear,
Left on the floor,
My legs can't find the way out, my palms hardened from the mans work;
Dark and *****, the floor is full of ash,
From a fire we had in front of a fight,
That was lit from the fire in your naked belly,
And the golden spark of guilt in your darkened eyes.
And there is a threadbare mattress that was once clothed,
By our bodies and our sweat, and sleep,
And on the wall in the night, as you vehemently slept,
A thousand decisions were written on the peeling paint,
In calligraphic cursive writing, 'A medieval love affair',
As the heart drew breath in doubting love across the air.
Bare legged jeans, double ending tshirt and a naked bra,
An imprint left on your floor; a lack of interest,
Makeup left in a leather bag,
primal ******, a primary requirement of admittance,
A threadbare rug holds the handprints of many girls before,
Raw knees scuffed the richly spiced darkened stained wool.
Walking away with a left footed boot and a right handed eye,
Casting a backwards look from behind a blue glassed veneer,
Left with a scuffed heel and Viennese waltz dancing in my ears,
The last doorknob I ever touched, wonderland being left to the Cheshire Cat.
Drink me.
Eat me.
Swallow me.
And as I fall he demands,
He said,
'Where are you going?'
'Down the rabbit hole"

I'd like to eat a mango
As I glide through a Tango
My bubbles would pop
While doin’ Hiphop
I’d soothe my soul
Swingin’ Rock and Roll
No time for slumber
While doing the Rhumba
My blood would pulse
To a Viennese Waltz
Dizzy’s how I’d feel
Skipping a Scots Reel
I’d dance Ballet
With my valet
I’d cut a rug
Doing jitterbug
I’d be happy as
Improvising Jazz
I'd like to swing a Fire Poi
In exotic far away Hanoi
I’d fly to San Francisco
To indulge in Disco
I’d as soon not talk
Sliding through a Moonwalk
I’d wear a yarmulke
While doing the Polka
I’d get the gist
Of doing the Twist
I could unwind
With a Bump and a Grind
I’d take off my wig
For a fast Irish Jig
I'd be a hot Mama
Performing the Cha cha
My heart would sing
To a Highland Fling
I’d step up the tempo
To stamp a Flamenco
I'd feel alive
Just doin’ the Jive

Now the ending’s your choice
For better or woice!
One is glad One is sad
Pick one and it’s done-                                      

I’m off to France                                 It’s the witching hour
For a chance to dance                        And I’m a wall flower.


Tricia Lambert

Although far removed from the great Sahara I by chance met Saharazad in the market place she
Wore white she registered from cute to beautiful excuse the personal reference but this is all
About feelings I wore brown it is another way to be invisible weight is the greatest disconnect
You are truly ignored in school I was known as the class clown at home I was the life of the
Party even when I took computer classes I just reverted back talking out loud having the
Teacher laughing too this time but as I said before as a searcher you can’t be joining everything
In eight years I have been to my family’s home three times and one of those times was because
I got a false report that one of them had died sadness and loneliness is a requirement to see
And pearse the inner world of the soul you truly must be on the outside so let me continue to
Relate this lovely creature I happened upon her smile could cause a minor accident gorgeous it
Was just short of jumping on a carousel but better all the color and lights and music was
Emanating from her loveliness her white attire only increased the pleasure isn’t that what you
See worn a lot when one dances to the Viennese Waltz just showing you what you miss and
Don’t see such gentle beating of the heart from a human fount and then she speaks and the
Music begins brick and asphalt you have never been so blessed then you mix in sky and sun it’s
An experience to die for eyes of wonder you bring down the thunder and without doubt the
Attending mist to the eyes the mind you stand in one place but your back in years gone by she
Was wonderful then now she is dreamy truly the stuff that dreams are made of oh God
Consecrate these dreams to immortal feats and deeds make those that feel so alone they are
Being fooled and harmed by the enemy I have been in your school of instruction for a long time
And I attest these feelings and facts are sound Sarazard is more than imagination but she is the
Root and beauty of true life Thank you Father that she is my friend and I choose to share with
All who will read this if everything feels mundane and worthless you are in a bad place where
Lies Are ruling come and be free I can’t give you her address but I have shown her unmasked
And the realness of the person that she is blessings to her and you

Whether or not to invite kids to your wedding is one of those polarizing First World problems that can end friendships, divide families, and ratchet up couples therapy bills. Your time can be better spent deciding what desserts will be at the Viennese table or which Billy Joel song will be your first dance. There's really no need to get defensive about the whole kid thing.

We can only invite a certain number of people.

The caterer doesn't have chicken nuggets.

It's a late ceremony.

We think kids are spawns of Satan.

Let me stop you right there. There seems to be a common misconception that I want to spend every waking moment with my children (probably because I spend every waking moment with my children). Don't tell me why my kids aren't invited to your wedding; just don't invite them. It will be magical. Here's why:

It's your day. If you want circles of doves, bridesmaids wearing Indonesian tapestries or the Electric Slide, do it. Who am I to dictate what your special day looks like? Kids create a certain, shall I say, atmosphere that is not everyone's cup of tea. I completely understand if you want the joyous union between two adults to be an adult-only affair.

I get a rare night out. You are literally forcing me to leave my house, put on an expensive dress I'll only wear once, dance with my husband, and socialize the night away. This hasn't happened since my own wedding.

I don't want them to upstage you. I'm not going to lie; my three-year-old looks smashing in tulle and sequins. Plus, she's a boss at throwing things on the floor, so tossing petals down the aisle will be a snap. Once we curl her hair, put her in matching bejeweled shoes, and turn her loose on the dance floor, all eyes and cameras will be on her. I mean, you. It's totally your day.

My kids don't want to be there either. It combines all the fun of sitting still, being quiet, and not ******* in public. What kid wouldn't love that? I've been to an occasional wedding where I've seen kids having a blast, boogie-oogie-ing up a storm, twirling in circles. But most of the time, I see them sitting in the coat room, looking surly while playing Angry Birds on their parents' phones.

Nobody really wants to supervise them. Relatives love to tell us: "Bring Junior, we will totally entertain him during cocktail hour," or "I can't wait to dance with little Nancy." Next thing we know, the bar opens, and everyone scatters to chase down the server with the mini-hot-dog tray. Friends and family always swear they'll help us out, but really, no one wants to babysit my kids at a wedding. Everyone is too busy having fun. It's impossible to hold a writhing toddler and a whiskey sour at the same time; one of them always falls. And those kids always eat all my mini hot dogs.

It'll keep your guest list in check. At this point in our lives, a lot of us have children--many, many children. If you let us each bring a "plus-4," your head count will spiral out of control, fast. The dance floor will begin to resemble the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese's, and forget about being able to hear the vows over the cacophony of little voices asking if it's "almost up to the food part"--not that my kids will eat any of their $100-a-plate dinner anyway.

You will save a ton of money for me. Forget my own dress, hair and makeup; now my 3-year-old needs an outfit, matching shoes, hair accessories and jewelry. We need to pack crayons, coloring books, toys, an alternate meal (the infant isn't into prime rib these days) and a larger hotel room. And I suppose we should probably give a nicer gift.

Mommy needs a drink. I'm not a raging ******, but I do enjoy imbibing the odd glass of wine, or six, at a wedding. Hey, it's celebratory! Nothing kills a buzz faster than having to be responsible for the welfare and safety of small children in a room filled with innumerable safety hazards. I also have no desire to explain to them why Mommy has a lazy eye and "New Year's breath."

My children have no plans to reciprocate. There is a strong likelihood that my daughter will not invite you to her 4th birthday party -- something about "limited space in the bouncy house" and "pizza only serves eight." Since no invitation is forthcoming, feel free to save the space at your wedding for your mom's second cousins or that co-worker whose wedding you were B-listed to. Everyone will have a much better time.

Especially me.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/pink-formal-dresses

walking
the streets of Vienna
with you
things come alive

   venerable palaces
   waltzing around St. Stephen's

   beautiful white horses
   from the Spanish Riding School
   galloping through the Schönbrunn Park

   old Sigmund F.
   ogling the Viennese Choir Boys

a skeleton in my closet resides
thinking of him makes me sigh
I want not the world to know he exists
but eventually they will persists,
and know the secrets of everyone
from hated truth, I'll not be undone
so before they are given the chance
I take him out, teach him to dance
learn foxtrot, tango, Viennese waltz
polite conversation, he will exalt
he'll learn to stand in the limelight
once I'm done he'll be a sight
to behold that's filled with glory
oh when I'm done they'll tell a story
but not of my misdeeds, oh no
this one they'll love, never let go
a perfect gentleman for all to see
soon they'll be jealous he's dancing with me

how hard
   under earphones
   oozing Viennese waltzes
to accept
   your absence

suspended
   in blinding sunlight
some 37,000 feet
above the Atlantic

          * *

Sunday afternoon
her best bud,
our dearest friend,
coming over for
a television marathon:

appetizer, a glass onion,
a ****** mystery to whet,

NFL football main course,
accompanied by her pasta bolognese,

plus a tasty choice of English after-dinner treats,
with chocolate chip cookies, candied pecans,
a platter of  BBC sweet treats,
even one Viennese,
some creatures large and small,
a Victorian female most scarlet.


I proffer:

I will wear my
best pressed
bleu jeans,
my new Kit & Ace bleu sweater,
(that she bought me)
actively participating in all
activities, even keep my cussing
to a tolerable minimum,
and if asked, will gather in a taxi,
no matter it raining bitter cold.

She weighs my terms,
excepting
her acceptance:

Responding that my
dress code excessively formal,
sweatpants will be
infinitely more comfortable,
than jeans, given the intense
intensity of couched exertion.

A sole thought courses through my body:

Lord!
what a magnificent creature
you have planted in my garden.

i'm starting to really see it as the next Kenya,
the Maldives or some obscure care
for a seashell...
   exotica of an exile... funny how
there's no book entitled: the exile...
      oh the misery of the jew,
double afront with israel being met -
that there's the book of exodus,
   but there's no book of exile -
  czerwone korale!
   czerwone niczym wino!
korale z polnej jarzębiny!
i łzy dziewczyny wielkie łzy! -
i cite those words, to quote the unconscious,
to cite the primodal drive to
   a feeding to relocate to a
   shared ethnicity, nothing
to concern the spave voyage...
to craft global economy, and
cite Neil Armstrong...
   to be level headed, and to be of the earth
bound, and unto earth returned...
    best be readied to accept
morality, than dream-up immortality...
but i am a marriage...
i am but a marriage...
      i dance to a polonais, and i dance to
a viennese waltz! and i shout hey!
and i shout tango! too...
                 such that the song be folk,
and be the song of rowan...
          and given global affairs:
it's nothing but cheap, a care to huddle,
a care to hide...
   a care to ask for a tortoise shell
and equal worth of year upon year
to match up to the most deserved
  wise-men talk of immortality:
the żółw and the dąb:
   Mietek! pats na ten żółwidąb!
do tańca Mietek! do tańca!
na tron oko sokoła! nic po nas z tą
flegmą reszty, co o cycek
           świni maca pocałunek, i ssa dobytek!
pierdolone kuci kuci, hyda... mlask
takiej miłości! obfity w usta zamoczone
   w piździe i oleju. ach nie to!
dawaj panie! niech tym dodać
co nie jeden tchu hyd!
                 jak złodziej Tuwim...
  ja też pragne wtargać sie w tło Ęngliszczyzny;
ach nie tak...
            ratój panie Bank! ratój panie dynamo!
ratój panie swój ostatni włos!
a patem panie bij go panie,
         ten jedyny włos... o kłos!
a wtedy z takiego poczynania: wydób księge!

‘How quaint,’ remarked Mistress Hora as she turned the afternoon on its head, ‘that you would consider time to be a linear construct.’

‘Positively post-historic,’ agreed Master O’Clock, nodding his head in perfect synchrony with the orchestra that played inside his ear. Today was Waltzday (or so he had named it), an interminable reminder that atomic metronomes particularly those of Viennese manufacture were not to be trifled with.

‘Be assured, my dears, that this fancy is a passing one and exists only as a fleeting extemporaneous distraction,’ our Mistress continued. The first year students breathed a collective sigh of relief. ‘Now, I want no clumping, no running ahead, and NO helical improvisation. When yesterday’s fish and chips come wrapped in tomorrow’s newspaper it gives our school a most unfortunate reputation.’ The class chortled as one. ‘Most importantly, please remember to take your pocket guide.’

I reached for my bedraggled copy of The Theory of Chronometrical Fluidity: Compressed Edition and wrung the pages out. I had failed badly at applied clepsydrics and my cousin Widget wasn’t letting me forget it. From behind the glass, I spotted her playing a furtive game of Gregorian and by the look on her face February was winning. I blew her a lemniscate to grab her attention. She scowled, looked up from her losing streak and giggled when she saw me spiralling in her direction. ‘Good luck,’ she spiralled back.

Miss Hora flexed her wrist and glanced at her temporal transponder. ‘You will be marked on cuneiformity, consistency, and rate of continuance. Now be off with you. Tempus fugit!’ With a flick of her bejangled fingers she opened the S.A.N.D. grates. I held my breath and jumped.