burnished saddle metallic

Posted on July 15, 2013 by troysherdahl

gravel road rumble strip

vibration sideways swerve

dusty billowed flatland trip

on Mexican blanket nerves

dragonfly splat pane

an, “aaww shucks,” sign

miles of golden field refrain

“cuddle up, you darlin’ mine”

blue water dance keys

Brightsand pleasure sight

anticipation sun sees

brown skin that gets all tight

 

frog croaks

waves lap

sweetgrass floats

summer raps

beer soaked

Buick nap

body pokes

buttons snap

 

peaked denim blues

well worn sneaks

caresses and “ooh’s”

tube top peeks

daisy duke views

tan line freaks

clam bake juice

beach passion leaks

 

hot muscles creasing

hands slip and slide

cocoa butter greasy

private parts glide

Buick hood sleazy

bucking underside

heavy breathing weezy

the long sex pride

 

our burns will be

sweet pink memory

our sweaty patina tricks

burnished saddle metallic

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hookah man

Posted on July 12, 2013 by troysherdahl

hookah man is

lost in smoke

and sips of

jasmine tea

hookah man is

rubbing whiskers

philosophically

hookah man is

summoning

a genie sweet

that’s his alone

to see

hookah man is

looking in

at the place

he wants to be

hookah man is

seeking truth

his mind will

be set free

 

arabesque pipe flight

blue glass firelight

hubbly-bubbly sounds right

Turkish dream delight

 

hookah man is

sailing off

on his clouds

of jasmine sea

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A Walk at Les Baux

Posted on July 3, 2013 by troysherdahl

I had seen her smile hundreds of times, maybe a thousand, but she wasn’t smiling this morning. “Why don’t you go for a walk on your own today,” it was a cool statement not a question. “I need some time to myself.”

“Uhhh…oh…okay,” I stammered and got my bag, “I’ll be back… in a couple of hours.”

Our bed and breakfast, Le Prince Noir, was up at the top of the old medieval town of Les Baux de Provence and there were a hundred steps and cobblestones to climb to get to it. Everywhere we went here ruined battlements looked down on us with a remote, broken sadness. The constant wind kept the castle’s crimson flag taut and made us tense.

I went out with a combination of melancholy and relief. I didn’t like what I had said the night before. Maybe, I hadn’t said enough. She was right, I hadn’t made any time for romance. It was like we were travel buddies getting on each others’ nerves— and I needed a break as much as she did.

The weather during our May stay had been cold, wet and windy. The mistral had been blowing fierce and Provence had been freezing. This morning, although the wind was whipping, the sun was shining hot and I had to peel layers off as I went.

As I hiked at the side of the winding pavement I noticed the many centipedes trying to cross the road. Perhaps they were millipedes, I don’t know, I couldn’t count their legs. In any case, if they were millipedes, the extra legs weren’t getting them across the road any quicker and most were getting run over by the tires of Peugeots and Citroens. Then I realized they weren’t trying to cross the road, they were crawling on to the asphalt to warm up. It was a mini massacre, befitting the violent history of Les Baux and this Valley of Hell— where Dante Alighieri had been inspired for his inferno.

Dante might have called it a tortured landscape and, although I appreciated the spectacular drama of it, the place was hard. One could easily feel tortured here. The rocks looked like bleached bones. White limestone outcroppings had holes and skeletal niches carved in them from either thousands of years of erosion, or a thousand years of man. The empty eye sockets watched me maliciously and I was comforted by the occasional passing car.

The twirling cedars Van Gogh had painted as green fire clung to cliffs with scruffy bushes, precariously clawing at what soil they could. There was no surface water to be seen anywhere. And, that ever-blowing mistral moaned ghostly in my ears carrying the voices of ancient battle dead. Its breath also stirred the blood-red poppies so they flickered like flames.

But the vast quarry caverns seemed the most hell-like to me. They were omnipresent; the valley had been quarried for two millennia. Their entrances were tall, foreboding gates capped with thick mountain lids. There was graffiti, garbage and foul smells. I was scared to go in very deep. They reminded me of cold tombs and I wondered if hell could be cold.

I didn’t want to be cold any more. I kept walking down and around with the sun on my face and the wind at my back. I walked into L’Oustau de Baumanière and looked at the pool and the menu. They both looked a little chilly and hundreds of euros out of our budget. Maybe we could do it next time when it was warmer and perhaps I’d sold my soul.

So, I climbed back up to town. Zigzagging up the asphalt and then the cobblestone. I stopped at a shop and bought a music box that played “La Vie En Rose”. It had the Eiffel Tower on it and I thought she might like it. I walked up to Le Prince Noir and the sun was blazing on the roof tiles. She was there waiting with her warm smile. It was heaven. I gave her the box and she played it, and smiled some more.

Les Baux got hot that afternoon. I thought, when the sun shines and someone you love smiles, even the Valley of Hell can be a heavenly place.

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now Dufy’s in my head

Posted on June 28, 2013 by troysherdahl

pinks and reds can go together

they do in nature, she said

now I’ve been bit by a feral dog—

and Dufy’s in my head

 

walls of strident haute color

wild beast brush stroke -er

the painting space all bathed

a bathing place is saved

with optimistic laughing gowns

bringing in the happy clowns

the chic parties, musical events

luxury and carefree elegance

sparkling news of the Côte d’Azur

yachting views— a regatta, bien sûr

 

Fauvist goofy Dufy’s red

pink and ink scenes in my head

floating on those nautical blues

spilling on my suede boat shoes

the figures squiggled are alive

on hues so jiggled to jam and jive

all is big and billboard bold

colors hot with nothing cold

 

July in Le Havre with a Mexican orchestra

people on the Paris quay— a smiling face, the gay Falaise

beach at Sainte-Adresse to nighttime arcades of Vallauris

the casino of Nice funding boats at Martigues

this house in Marrakech could or races with Goodwood

and Claudine from behind fills— that basin of Deauville’s

 

gallant green bags, tricolor victory cock

valiant sailing flags or an orange wind sock

Amphitrite and La Fée Électricité

the blushing brushes wonderfully

a wet jetty to the fruit bowl pool

and splash some color here, Raoul

and splash some color here, Raoul

 

your pure romancing hits the mark

with pretty parasols prancing in the park

no worldly dramas dancing in the dark

dark dead—

because red

and pinks can go together

they do in nature, she said

and I’ve been bit

by the wild beast—

now Dufy’s in my head

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in Val d’Enfer

Posted on June 13, 2013 by troysherdahl

in Val d’Enfer

his caverns are calling

the mistral is moaning

tortured cliffs tremble

and Dante’s Inferno

still rains

fire

 

time for young green

lured

old white is timeless

trapped

eternal red re-ignites

pits—

climbing ivy, intense

loud

on limestone walls, stoic

silent

crimson flag and roof tiles

blown

le prince’s horse, jet

black—

dovecotes honeycomb ancient

coops empty

present pigeons don’t reside but

come coo to kin

no silver knights now guard

at night

their mortal combat, dark

forgotten—

bunches of bloody poppies wink

at excited dead

and broken battlements are

bruised yellow

 

if cliffs would confide

if towers would talk

if walls would write

if ruins would remember

the colors would sing death

 

still, Dante

those blazing cedars still

twirl

squeezed olive trees still

drip

Vincent’s strokes still

scream

and a thousand

years and

colored souls still

shriek—

in Val d’Enfer

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combustion same

Posted on June 12, 2013 by troysherdahl

cold hands

hot hands

her hands

my hands

cold lips

hot lips

her lips

my lips

hearts beat

hot heat

her heart

my heart

 

circulation

different

combustion

same

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Aux Trois Mailletz

Posted on June 7, 2013 by troysherdahl

some want to stay

some have to leave

some wait an hour to get in

some need to pee and

they wait for the can-can

some want the beef and the beaujolais

some want the jazz from the musicman

so kick up your feet, clap your hands

at Aux Trois Mailletz

feel Paris’s best

this is the

joie de vivre

 

it’s a small place with red and white

tablecloths and dim candlelight

bonjour, bonjour! madam, monsieur

the Gallic vibe is pure allure

 

I hum “La Vie En Rose”

dum dee dee dee dee dee  dum dee dee dee dee da da dum…

 

three, no, make it— piano player à trois

take turns

entertaining regulars and, voilà—

people that want to be French

one plays “As Time Goes By”

I look at Natalie and nearly cry

we eat a cheese plate

drink a bottle of rouge

the players change

and so, our mood

every tune gets better

and I—

want to be French

 

a woman sits at the piano

and a Chinese lady stands

she sings “I Dreamed A Dream”

it’s like an angel dropped in

on Rue Galande

next she sings “La Bohème”

she warms our crowd

she warms us

the ovation is hot

we all sweat smiles, wet cheers—

happy in this moment caught

and released

 

I hum “La Vie En Rose”

dum dee dee dee dee dee dum dee dee dee dee da da dum…

 

how is he going to make it?

old Monsieur Viagra

with his two Russian call girls

young bleach blonde twins

who gobble up his beef platter

salad and his fruit

he listens to their chatter

and licks his wrinkled lips

how can he keep up?

how can he keep it up?

old Monsieur Viagra pays and the

ménage à trois

head downstairs

to the after hours jazz

 

I hum “La Vie En Rose”

dum dee dee dee dee dee dum dee dee dee dee da da dum…

 

some like it hot

some like it cool

some see it through the

rose-colored glasses

some are young at heart

some old, classique

Trois Mailletz is fantastique

its cups bubble with age-less joy—

tonight our young lips taste Parisian

this wine and jazz soufflé, well eaten

goes late, man

so kick up your feet, clap your hands

at Aux Trois Mailletz

the best comes yet

this is the

joie de vivre

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you used to be cheese

Posted on May 9, 2013 by troysherdahl

when I was a kid

you used to be cheese

then I grew up

and felt your eyes

moonlight magnetic

 

man in the moon—

mother earth’s

lover

I watch you dance

the sky for her

 

fishermen, sailors

women flow

ride those tides

crescent to full—

the passionate pull

 

crazy moon—

you used to be cheese

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gutter creeks

Posted on May 9, 2013 by troysherdahl

snow kids are melting

laughing, splashing

in gutter creeks—

two wear rubber boots

three sport wet sneakers

their popsicle stick floats

become speed boats

racing to the

sweet sewer

finish line

cascade

cheer

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I See Them

Posted on May 6, 2013 by troysherdahl

“We made a mistake. We did not give him enough of the cooling powder.”

“The probe is in place, is it not?”

“Yes, but he woke and saw us with the cutting lights, and gave a human scream.”

“Will he remember us?”

“Perhaps in his human dreams, but his kind won’t believe his telling of us—”

 

I opened my eyes wide. I remember that. I didn’t blink my eyes open. I was asleep and then, full awake. There was nothing gradual about it. Annie was next to me, sleeping soundly. The room was dark but I saw these strange lights, like a barcode scanner. I smelled burning flesh. Then I saw them and screamed a scream Annie didn’t hear.

They had cut open my arm with some hissing instrument. I couldn’t move my body, only my screeching eyes. They were attaching something to the bone in my wrist. I watched in utter horror and one of them saw me seeing it. This one took some powder and sprinkled it on my head. It was cool and I passed out.

When I woke the next morning, I was wet with sweat. I immediately raised my wrist and examined it closely. There was no trace of any wound or scar; no blood anywhere on the sheets, bed or floor. I fell back to the bed with that relief of a nightmare over and unreal.

Annie doesn’t believe this, neither do my friends, but some days my wrist hurts and— at night— I see them.

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