Zarathustra's only fan papers New York with lilac
flyers. This is no End-of-the-world hysteria.
Nothing's really lost, just as physics tells us. Not
even she, as she waits forever, an eternally recurring
island. When she turns her Judy Garland-
Natalie Wood-Linda Fiorentino face to stare down
the god-fearers, it's that man smiling at her.
In her God-is-Dead-Red lipstick, she purrs at him,
she makes a one-time decision to stop searching for
work, for the the-a-ter, for the method that also died
in the petticoat of dirt all along the off-off Broadway
stages, aurora'd in disingenuity. Her delicate nature
knows the soul is less than one grain of sand. Time
to get tough. She's off to see the wizard, or this
no color-eyed Puerto-Rican, she's off. She's basting a
life back together before the Fates cut her strings,
she's an organ under the mauve sky figured, fluttered
out against a life given up to pavement, to a
rejection of mediocrity, the worst immorality of all,
she's Cassandra, Diana, Zarathustra's greatest fan,
she's the final heat coughing up orchids for the man
with his lips on her finite number of events.
Eternal Recurrence was previously published in Carousel