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Hemingway Reincarnates as Liberace
Sitting at his piano, he belts out a show tune about Dietrich
in bed with him at the Ritz in Paris.
His stubby fingers remember her
as they muscle the piano keys.
Summers spent at the cottage on Walloon Lake
were never like this. His name flashes
seven days a week above the Strip.
Some nights the Travel Channel shows him with roses
between his teeth, then the curtain falls to end the show.
It’s become easy for him to confess that there’s nothing wrong
in coming to terms with one’s feminine side.
After all how could anyone forget Señor Lorca?
Still, he refuses to talk about the kimono he wears.
The Yokoska silk turns him into a matador.
A two-fisted drinker, he drinks to his legend
and the crowd of sycophants who shout his name.
Blond-haired bellboys are invited into his suite,
who he then pays to make passes at him.
Always they are tan and limber.
Soon they chuckle, snort and charge across the carpet
as if they are in Pamplona. He loves their feet and manicured toes
that belong on a statue of cupid. And so he waits,
barefoot, arms outstretched, ready to embrace them all.
They come forward, witness to the concupiscent matador.
He urges them on, thrilled by the horned fingers
that they hold at their temples. If he were gored,
it would bring him glory, but the last moment
he pivots and deftly waves the imaginary muleta in their face
with an effeminate grace. Tonight as he glances at the crowd,
he wonders faceless dollop will worship him backstage?
He sees that the Fab Five have front row seats.
After the show he will ask them what they think
about sequins, rhinestones, golden candelabras,
and his signed edition of Tender Is the Night.
Return to Volume 7.3
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