By Prospero Dae
He looked into her cobalt-black eyes and saw that she had been dishonest or—and perhaps this was it—that she was going to bear, after several joyful years of itinerancy with an off-color theatre troupe, septuplets. Of course he never asked for money when prevailed upon to use his gift of clairvoyance or divination. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, as everyone is entitled to make a living (impresario, divorcee, luchador, et cetera). No, let it be known that he sought, on occasion, small pecuniary tokens, from those that could afford it, because, you see, he came from a large family…
Coming from a large family is excuse enough for many a peccadillo.
I especially like this for all the possible tangents the mind may gingerly take along its spirally plot. For instance I spent considerable time enjoying thoughts and images of luchadores….
Now that you are an intertextual/postmodern commenter, I will turn you, zestily and valorously, into a postmodern poet.
“For instance I spent considerable time enjoying thoughts and images of luchadores….” Masked or unmasked?
Masked, of course….and with names like Blue Demon and El Santo. Otherwise, there’s no poetry, only a bunch of vain sweaty guys behaving like my five brothers used to behave constantly on the living room floor.
Very interesting, as I felt I read into his intimate thoughts and then conjoured up so many possibilities ~ hoping this one is continued.
I think Cynthia will want to take up the baton and write a sonnet about a rebarbative luchador.
Don’t believe him, Mary. Everyone knows that sonnets are only about lovely things, like love and flowers and longing and melancholy, and the weather…..
Ah, but one luchador may be lovely to another luchador and be thus the perfect subject for a Luchadorian sonnet.
Very true. And if I ever I pen a Luchadorian sonnet, I will give you full credit for creating the genre—a postmodern one, for sure. Meanwhile, the mind boggles at the whole prospect.