Bio Note: I’m nearly finished with a project several years in the doing, which is editing the memoir of my stepfather, the American sculptor Harvey Fite, from a manuscript I found quite by accident with a bunch of other papers. It must have been written in the 1930s, when he had not yet become a sculptor, but was instead an aspiring actor. It covers his boyhood in Texas, coming east to college, leaving college for the stage. That, my V-V column, my continuing history of jazz in the 1950s-60s. and the occasional poem occupy my writing time.
Arresting the Surrealists
After a line in George Antheil's memoirs The police entered and any number of surrealists, Society personages, and people of all description were arrested. Proust was home in bed, but Picasso was there, Stravinsky, Satie, Milhaud, Joyce, Man Ray, Ford Madox Ford, Miro, and in the confusion no one heard what mad Nijinsky said about Diaghelev.
Best to Go
We all die, which is why she wants to look you over now, though she won't say it, or anything. Her silence is scraped together from birds swarming from lawn to treetop, or money being measured, or your mistress, the one who rides naked at dawn, whose skin is golden. Hers is pale. Best to go to her.
You can talk to Death but you can’t feed him easy to remember when he comes in white tie and tails an ambassador’s sash sits at the head of the table snaps his fingers for servants demands the best china the perfect vintage wine 2005 Lynch-Bages sends to the chef for a roast suckling pig with an apple in its mouth harder when you look down and he’s there as a puppy with soft eyes
©2021 Tad Richards
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