Excerpt
It beguttons the buttoning of alarms or the on of the radio. Somewhere pianoish, Rachmaninoffish. Awake. A little chilly.
In the hall where the hall rolls bathroom-toward near the mirror and our donkey, a bit of trouble, of seeing himself clearly. Nevermind that. He dabs drips, which are of a muskier something.
The mezzo-soprano sang, then bang, ended; the audience sang, off with their pointed hats.
Three front knocks to the rocker of the door, three more. Waltzy. He’s had, not a bath but a whimper, not a song but a soup, still sporting a pajama-slippers ensemble, a beard-mustache mask. Roaring the open door opens the roaring, the Cassandra of his dream, the mezzo-soprano of the dream of Cassandra. CassanD. ra. Her pheromone hovers as floating rose petals.
Her eyes on his and his on hers. She rips off hers and his she rips her dress and his ripped and dressed in his ripped pajamas, holding his face antler. She kisses it, him, and they
to the the floor in a movement. Hover, move, merge above a deer with rose antlers. Rachmaninoff’s 2nd nears the end of the 1st.