COLD BLOW ZE WINDSAMARS

Ze tommydawgs lay passed out behind Ed's bar, having half-drained ze barrel o' rum in zere quest to drown sorrow. Over ze tappity-tap o' Cap'ns Booty and Proto's resculpturing of ze figgerhead, zere was ze sharp hisssss of unsquelched whitenoise coming outta ze speakers in ze radio shack.

At first, Long Tom had merely repeated ze call sign over and over and over and over, "Tommy can ye hear me?" first in binary, zen spitting into ze open mike, and finally tapping it wid ze empty Dutch gin bottle against ze bare wires o' ze\code key. Zen he fiddled wid da receiver controls and ze hyper-spacdirectional antennae arrays, lissenin' for ze Pyrate Radio signal just off ze coast of French eternity.

"I heard it," muttered Long Tom to hisself (although Foo was cooped up on ze couch and OD-sleepy from ze drogs). "I swear to gawd I head it.

"T'was a signal. The Tommykins*is already spinning celestial vinyl and interviewing Keith Moon and Jimmy Hendrix on Ze Pyrate Radio, 50 billion watts. He's gonna have Lou Rawls on after the break," he said, to no one. "I heard it."

Ze empty bottle now jus' rolled acrost ze deck as ze Pearl swayed
back and forth in ze sandswells.

Ed tippy-hoofed carefully over ze tommydawgs, pounding ze last few
hammer-blows into ze rum cask lid which set it on wid just ze right amount of wedged crookedness.

"I can't taste `im." This Be said, catching a few drippy-drops from ze bung-spout drippin' on ze tommydawgs' snouts.

"Ye couldn't taste Admiral Nelson neither, they say, fer the first month," Ed said.

This Be shrugged and turned back to painting ze poem over ze barback,
sippin' ze Tommyrum from one o' ze silver booty cups she had fetched from ze treasure hold.

Ed stood back and squinted while he read ze poem to hisself.

Easy, after all

-I-
There's no surety in this flight,
Tumbling as we do
Without wings,
But to spread arms against
The brutal wind which,
Perhaps, will carry us.

-II-
When the sun swings low
And leaves beat against
Electric air with
The furious joy of those
Soon mulch, then
Mysteries are revealed

Here's a secret, let it lie;
The form is clear enough,
Betrayed by somber hollows
Light cannot reach.
Place your hand here; your foot
Finds purchase there.

A pass may be found
Through every divide.
No stratagem succeeds against
Resolute tenderness,
The endgame played by those who
Know there is no end.

Copyright 2003 Lisa Wilcox

Long Tom staggered in from ze radio shack and tried to focus on the gold lettering, "Who's Wilcox?"

"Who the fuck cares?" said This Be, sippin' some more. She tossed a brush at Foo, who woke, stretched, and wandered over to ze bar.

"Can ye taste `im?" asked Foo.

"Not yet," said Ed. "Too soon."

"What ye gonna do when the rum runs out?" asked Long Tom.

"Fill `im up again!" said Ed.

He fetched the crystal jar down from ze back bar shelf where This be had almost dripped paint on it. He turned it aroun' until ze eye was focused on ze barrel. He gently nudged the tommydawgs over onto a blanket near ze rail so ze eye could see `em too.

Then Ed slid silver cups down the bar toward Long Tom and RedFoo.

Cap'ns Booty and Proto came in from ze bow and quickly found silver cups in front o' them, too.

"Have some," Ed rasped.

T'was not a request.

------------------- ^ --------------------

*We lost Tommy at Valentine's. He was our soul, and a pyrate. The funniest man, the deepest. Cold blow the winds of Mars.