Cafe Royal 06/08/2018

For Kerry’s Prompt today at Real Toads, Spec Fic (speculative fiction). We are to write a poem that is based on Spec Fic, dystopian, furturistic, horror, gothic. I am adding a new poem to my Dorian Grey series (character by Oscar Wilde).  The picture of the young Tony Bourdain is one of my favorites.  We were cheffing at the same time. I burned out and left the professional world, he stayed and became an icon.  He suicided, I am still here.  There is a lot of sadness about his suicide; we are of an age, had similar beginnings of our careers, we were at one point high all the time (it was a way of kitchen life in the 70’s and early 80’s), we both travelled extensively tasting food and experiences.  I miss him a lot.

Anthony Bourdain 1979


Cafe Royal 06/08/2018

“…your body is not a temple, it’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride.”
― Anthony Bourdain
“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” Oscar Wilde

The third cafe mocha of the morning,
The young man with the antique face
put down his cup and stared at the handsome waiters.
The Café Royal always had the most…delicious waiters.
His eye was arrested by one of the waiters
taking an absinthe to someone –
It was 11:00 am in the morning.
Surely too early for absinthe.
He spotted her.
At the table alone, grief in every inch of her body.
She put down the newspaper –
Lowered it down slowly as if,
as if it were a baby or a
mortally ill cat.
The waiter flamed the absinthe for her.
He said something to her.
She raised her eyes to him and then lowered them.
Picking up the absinthe,
Picking up the newspaper.
The young man with the antique face
continued to stare at her until
she looked up.
She saw him.
For once he was ashamed of his actions.
He stood and walked to her table.
She looked at him from head to toe
and said
Nothing.
She lowered her face again and
one of the gorgeous waiters came
with another absinthe.
Don’t, he spoke. Please don’t.
He put his hand lightly on her wrist.
I know grief he said. I know pain of loss
and heartbreak. I’ve watched my friends dying
One.
By.
One.
She put her head down and began to read the paper again.
Upside down he read:
“Anthony Bourdain, 61, found dead by suicide”
For once he was almost human.
For once he almost paid for her drinks and walked away.
Dorian Gray sighed. What the hell,
One only lives forever.
He sat down at the table
and looked into her eyes.

Reeve Carney as Dorian Gray – public domain photo

Close Encounters of the Odd Kind…

Today was odd.  Just one of those strange days – snowing like a blizzard but not sticking on anything except windshields, cars driving either 30 mph or 70 mph, women slipping across the parking lot into the office building wearing too high heels and pink sweaters or Duck boots and jeans, men wearing shorts and down jackets or business suits and tennis shoes. 

Strange, strange day.

And today, coming out of the small café in the building, blimey if I didn’t almost bump into Oscar Wilde’s distant American cousin.  Yes, really.

Thin lad, collar length wavy hair, wide collared cape, and wearing a velveteen jacket and pantaloons. I was not aware there was a Cosplay here at work today.  I would have worn my Starfleet Uniform (engineering services) with my Captain pips.

I must say, I momentarily stopped and visually followed him to the counter as he ordered a cappuccino and even when he went outside to the patio (in the snow) to smoke and have his coffee.  Yeppers, that kind of day. Makes me wonder who I’ll meet on the drive home and how they will be dressed.

Who knows? Care to speculate?

imagesCAC2155Z

%d bloggers like this: