... Thanks for checking in on us. We are 'smug' as a bug in a rug. We had relatively minor damage in our little hamlet of the big city. Other parts of the city got more tree and power line damage. We did have a power outage late Sunday night on into the early morning. The convenient remedy: just go to sleep. Internet and TV down and up all day yesterday and today. (Horrors! TV! How anti-intellectual, Mondo! Yes, I actually watch business news and old movies, and weather of late.)

We just got back from a week at The Inn on Biltmore Estate (8th this decade) ... and serendipitously just in time. The Reserve Pinot and "The Hunt" were quite good, both available at Biltmore.com.



I was perusing some old PC files and documents recently, and ran across a rather 'spirited' tête-à-tête you and I exchanged into the night of 06/30/2005, you after a surfeit of Pressenda 2000 Barolo, and me after a quaff or so of Kentucky's finest. It was hilarious. Roget would have had a field day looking up our lexicon of Webster's choicest. Having, in the course, resigned ourselves to the reality that there was no way for either to gracefully lose, we ended quite Shakespherically: "All's Well That Ends Well". If you would like a copy, please email me at sirMondoFuego@gmail.com.


~*~*~*~*~*~

Inter alia, I ran across one of my dark compositions from decades ago, and I need an independent evaluation to determine: "garbage" or "genius" ... or perhaps something else. What say you?


The Scorned Lover

~ Mondo Fuego ~December 20, 1993 ~

You're the Object of My Objection

~*~

I do not think you owe me much ...
A nod of care, a gentle touch.
For I have never been through such
Grief and pain, sleet and rain,
Fire and scorch. Oh! Burning torch!
To know despair, that you don't care,
To never, not ever, have you again.

~*~

You were the perfect lover: there, then gone.
Passion like that cannot linger on.
It blooms bright, sings a siren song
And lures the two, life seems anew,
Becomes intense, beyond good sense.
But having run its course, it loses force
And disappears for all but the very few.

~*~

I remember your lies, they were exceedingly sweet,
So cleverly tendered, my soul they did greet,
Not ever suspecting that inevitable, insidious defeat.
I was consumed - aflame, beyond reason - insane.
But your heart of gold, a conductor of cold,
Sought itself to defend, and it won in the end.
But the loss is yours, the cross is yours, us not to regain.

~*~

I love you, I hate you, I know not which the more.
No, I don't hate you, it's your guile I abhor.
Upon such behavior one cannot build rapport.
You could have been otherwise, spared us those lies,
And, while saving face, delivered us from disgrace.
Had you not the savoir faire? Did you just not care?
Were you too bound to your past to improvise?

~*~

You owe me a pittance, but you can't deliver,
For doing so requires such fortitude of the liver.
Courage ne'er your strong suit, you stand there and quiver.
Your beauty immense, 'tis of no consequence,
For your background was poor, that of a boor,
You cannot repent, just not that intelligent,
For want of character, a paradox of magnificence.