Hebe at the Bar

Diana Pollin



Calmly by the bar I wait. Cocktailing akimbo, my bar hand spindle- twiddles the stem of a nectar of nothingness. I twirl over a green olive an unseen dove has brought in from nowhere, a perfect poop shape of roundness. Flood's over, Noah! Time to dock the ark. Stool pigeon's home with a piece of peace. I joke to myself. Was it peace he was seeking or was it my lightning bolt shaped bar stooled body beckoning in the dim lights? Not all floods are pure rain water. I hear the scream of centuries, rolling from the sewer. I would not care to second guess the Chief Plumber working down below. I just take what scums along. I joke to myself. What does that change? Certainly not the lakes of spicy broth miraged as cool pools of sweet water shimmering under moon beams illusioning the sword Excalibur. The daylight cannot hide their hideousness. Be not mired in mirage. I chant to all my lovers. Yet I go unheard. Time to lay my cards on the table. Oh, the aces are held by other hands; I know not which.

Flood waters subside for dainty daydreams of youth recaptured. The gaming deity jumpstarts the startover machine... the chalice I twist and twirl callously. The oh so clever disguise of the spicy broth with the green poop middling its pool. The wheel of fortune inscribes its cretinous imitation of the universe. Arched as an old crone's back. A lunar park merry-go-rounding the pool of spicy broth elusive to illusion, gobblingulp the poor plunging fools. Stool pigeons in search of a piece of peace. They scream for my cold arms. Again. For the space of an eternal second, I tickle the ardour of king or clown before he leaves in the dream dazed morning and daylight cannot hide my hideousness. Nor his. Scaled lips to pools of burning broth. The dim lights of the bar outline my lightning bolt shaped seduction and the merry pinwheel twirl of the chalice. I start anew, adapting my act to the needs of the moment.





Diana Pollin is a New Yorker although currently living in the warm and soul inspiring city of Marseilles. She received her BA in English and French from New York University eons ago and a Masters of French from Middlebury and the Sorbonne. The French connection is deeply rooted in her but like Proust's madeleine, sights and sounds of her native Gotham get her. Continually. She has published on The Bewildering Stories website and in print medium. Her influences are Poe, Lefanu, Black, Lovecraft and bien entendu, O. Henry. Plus any world myth the demiurges throw her way.