b.z. niditch | maximilian


A memory stirs
as the wheels come off
of my motorcycle
when I ran into Max
from Lower Mexico
here in New Orleans
during Mardi Gras,
a direct descendent
from the emperor
of Habsburg-Lorraine
a music mercenary
wanting to stage here
his own coup d’etat
after returning
from the spas in Spain,
wishing to chat
about poetry and jazz
this once cool cat
now in a Napoleanic hat
who played an alto sax
like me
begs me to play a duet
after heartily eating
two crepe suzettes
and a beaten egg omelette
at the bistro
in the French quarter
with Josephine
his twice betrothed
red-lipped daughter
with gold in her mouth
and turned down nipples
after taking a few guys
on her knees
down South,
Max, his waxed hair
slicked with oil
from a less than hip
Fantin -Latour
pocket mirror trunk
starts to recite Baudelaire
now in a funk,
from one’s cups
proposes to play sax
in his woozy mood
at some strip club,
I leave this couple
to their sup
this groggy Maximilian
hope not to see them
one time in a million.

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