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| It takes a cool cat to blow a horn all aside Rampart Street the combo's play with the mambo beat... ~ The Hawketts, Mardi Gras Mambo DM 
I was born on the Gulf Coast, so I grew up with the lagniappe, the extra little sump’n-sump’n of human kindness that makes the world go 'round. The lagniappe is a gift, a free mini-beignet with your cup o' Luzianne or a few peppers tossed in with your okra. You never ask for the lagniappe, and it always makes you feel as if you got more than you bargained for. Now that I’m back on the Gulf Coast, living in the long, uneasy stretch between Cajun country and the Flora-Bama Lounge, I appreciate the spirit of the lagniappe more than ever. We all do. Adam even resisted the temptation to call this Mardi Gras issue Show Us Your Lits. But there’s always next year. Please enjoy DM 54 Lagniappe, an extra little sump’n-sump’n from Danse Macabre. We hope that you, too, feel as if you got more than you bargained for. James Kendley * Las Vegas has a zoo. I’m not referring to the casinos lining the Strip or the state Republican Party, but a real one with real animals, and to one particular cage that has a plaque reading: When the last individual of another living species breathes no more, another heaven and earth must pass before such a one can be again. -- William Beebe, 1877-1962, New York Zoological Society. That, folks, is a lagniappe. Well, not exactly. The specific, denotative meaning of lagniappe is “a small gift given free by a merchant to a customer, especially at the time of purchase” -- for example, a meal served with a complimentary glass of cheap house wine. That ties lagniappe to the capitalist system, the ostensible freebee merely bait to lure customers into further spending then or later. But this is a lit’rary muggazine, which gives me poetic license with the word. So in a broader-based, connotative meaning, lagniappe can and will be considered as “anything given or obtained gratuitously or by way of good measure.” In the case of the zoo plaque, its lagniappe lies in that animals make us more human. To whatever extent we alienate our relationship with animals through cruelty and exploitation and driving a species to extinction, we are alienating ourselves. After all, above and beyond our sometimes expensive stewardship of pets, livestock, and wildlife, the extra gift we receive from them is their totemism. That is, animals carry the vital symbols of our human identity – like “smart as a fox,” or “wise as an owl”-- thereby prompting us to deepen and enrich our understanding of ourselves. And there are lagniappes in our relationship with humans. A couple of weeks ago, I was waiting my turn at the dry cleaners when a woman behind me said, ”I love you.” No, she was not addressing me. She had been talking to herself in a low, sing-songy murmer, but her “I love you” was quite clear and sincere. And as she continued her conversational lilt, I got to wondering who was the lucky recipient of her love. Her elderly mother, perhaps, or her children? Or her husband or boyfriend, or maybe both? Whoever, the lagniappe given with her love was a nurturing "connectedness." Like others absorbed in genuine passion, she no doubt devoted considerable time and effort figuring what she could do to show how lucky she felt knowing and caring for her loved one(s). She demonstrated even when day-dreaming while on errands that love is giving, not taking, and not only what we feel, but how we act. And our world is a better place for it. There would have been a lagniappe, too, if she had said, “I hate you” instead. Granted, harsh language can make our words harder to hear and our good works harder to see, and can lead to bad behavior that can pollute and denigrate. But it can also lead to beauty, brilliance and inspiration. Indeed, beauty, brilliance and inspiration tend to flow most powerfully from the brokenness in human beings. Our darkness is a part of our light. Such a lagniappe is especially evident when the human involved is ourselves. I doubt any of us get through life without some suppressed hatred, anger, spite, and jealousy. Certainly not me. I’ve had the distractions of school, marriage, child-rearing and work, but now at 70 I have time to examine and work through some unlovely emotions, untended wounds, and no-longer-useful ideas about life. Simply living this long is, I suppose, a lagniappe. This holds particularly true when it comes to writers. Perhaps it’s true for all artists, but definitely it is definitely so for authentic writers, whose writing is pure selfishness that that, ironically, becomes presented to the world as charitable generosity. But the reality is that writers are lost in self, for self, their writing a cosmic mirror before which they strip and stand naked. In this respect, considering my age and corrupted body, my writing has no lagniappe. Jeffrey M. Wallmann * I have to confess I didn't know what a lagniappe was when it came over the wires as a suggested title for this issue--the issue before Penny Dreadful. So, not to appear any dimmer than I already do, I looked it up...and the definition is...well, just what Jeff and James say above. Which does seem pretty right for Danse Macabre. A gift in itself (hey, it's still absolutely free!) - just look inside its virtual front cover to find all sorts of little goodies, bon-bons, baubles, and whatnots from coloratura-filled folks who share the same joy in variety, originality, surprise, and yes, sometimes the tricksy and the macabrely as you. There you go. Up the academy! David Hughes 
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| Pamela Gross Danse Fantastique
The half-moon has emptied almost completely
its horn ladle of dark,
when a moon-eyed owl casts up
this weird litter.
Read in it,
A good night’s hunt.
Though there is more we want
the scattered remnants to say,
think us lucky to learn
the name of every disarticulated piece.
Spy
on the stained and gilded relics
through a hand lens whose frame suggests
ilium and aperture of
the pelvic cradle:
Long bones’ strong oars row close –
shark-finned
humerus and femur,
twin wands of the radius and ulna,
tibia and fibula’s welded buckle and pipe.
Each seeks its partner
lost
in the jumble.
Here, a scapula’s translucent wing;
and here, rib slivers’ silver shower.
Everywhere, star-spiked
segments of spine,
realign.
A mandible’s unhinged scythe
waves
in welcome beneath the skull’s
domino mask.
Pamela Gross was born and raised in Seattle, Washington, where she continues to live and work. Eight years’ work as an assistant to the Collections Manager in the Ornithology Division of the Burke Museum, University of Washington, profoundly influenced her life and writing. A recipient of numerous grants from the Seattle Arts Commission, the Artist Trust GAP funding, and King County Arts Commission, she has recently completed a new full-length manuscript, What the Wing Wants. * Ivan Krylov 1769-1844 Calico Sheep from Fables, Book VII
Lion lost all love for Calico Sheep.
It would be simple to be rid of them;
But that would not be rightly lawful -
He wore the crown of the woods not so that
He could strangle his subjects, but to meet out justice;
But he could not abide the sight of Calico Sheep!
How to lose them and preserve his glory in the world?
And so he calls to court
Bear and Fox for council -
And shares the secret with them,
That, upon beholding Calico sheep, he, every single time,
Suffers with eye pain all day long,
Which surely will cause his eyesight to be lost.
And how to avert such woe, he has no idea.
“All powerful Lion!”, Bear says, huffing,
Why so much discussing here?
Command, without further ado,
To strangle all the Sheep. Who will feel sorry for them?”
Fox, seeing Lion furrow his brow,
Meekly speaks, “O King! Our kindly King!
You'll surely forbid expelling the poor creatures
And will not shed innocent blood.
I dare offer a different council:
Decree that meadows are given them,
Where for the ewes there's ample food,
And for the lambs a place to run and frolic;
But since we're short of shepherds,
Decree that Wolves will shepherd them.
It seems to me somehow that
Their ilk will disappear on their own.
But in the meantime, they'll enjoy themselves;
And be what may, you will be uninvolved.”
Fox's thoughts were favored by the council,
And so successfully were applied, that in the end
Not only were there no more Calico Sheep -
Very few plain ones remained.
And what news spread among the beasts? -
That Lion is good, and all the evildoers are Wolves.
Translated by Ellen Orner
* Jennifer Reeser The LaLaurie Horror
Canto II
A final time, I grasped the gate in back
Of me, and found its wasted iron chilling –
Best left, perhaps, unfastened, just a crack.
The tourists at my side stood – most unwilling
To move beyond the pub, to be the first
To hear and witness what might mean the killing
Of their wise doubt, if worse should come to worst.
I wished to be the member far behind.
For who was I to lead, lame and accursed?
Mine was no quicker pace, no brighter mind
For answering the polls our guide would pose.
No sage nor sport was I, of humankind.
But, keeping watch in case the gate should close,
Leaving us all in that amusement park
Of fear, I went. It was the lead I chose.
As grackles scattered in the growing dark,
Some tossed them crumbs, with credible unrest.
One quoted from the gospel of Saint Mark.
Our guide continued like a man possessed,
He in whose procedure, pride is deceased.
Somehow, with a wince, I kept abreast.
We passed un-weeded alleyways, un-leased
Apartments empty as my temper -- walled,
Decrepit and macabre -- proceeding east
Across what seemed like acres, where there crawled
The sphinx moth caterpillar: emerald jade
In color, cowled as though a monk, and bald.
A float from some past Mardi Gras parade
We passed. Its lengths of curling, tattered crepe
Waved in the wind, toward a street blockade:
Slim, tentacle-like scrolls of gold and grape,
The tenebrous remains of gaiety,
Faded worms of melancholy -- changing shape.
A minister beside his laity,
But muttering as though he were alone
In tones to hint of spontaneity,
Stumbled on an orange traffic cone,
And brushing by me, mumbled, “Beg your pardon,”
Our final destination still unknown.
Through putrid fragrance from a courtyard garden,
I studied waifish shadows fashion, shift,
Resume on terra cotta brick, and harden.
Like gruesome ribbon on a Christmas gift,
With intricate despondency, they drew
Toward a tower tolling the graveyard shift.
I longed to feel – for once – some déjà vu,
A little illness, as if admonition
Not to do what I had come to do.
But this was not to be. I had a mission
As gravid as the scientist’s, within
Propelling me, whether fact or superstition;
The purpose of the poet: to begin
With nothing and from nowhere, to observe,
Then form a thing of beauty from great sin.
And twice the spirits now would not unnerve
My night’s resolve, transformed from afternoon.
Our guide spoke, as we came around a curve.
“It’s been a school for young girls, a saloon,
a shop, a musical conservatory,
apartment quarters – each abandoned soon,
Possessing lore and circumstance as gory
As any on this planet you will hear:
The mansion of Marie Delphine Lalaurie.
Please raise your gazes to the second story.” Jennifer Reeser is the author of An Alabaster Flask (Word Press,2003), Winterproof (Word Press, 2005), and Sonnets from the Dark Lady and Other Poems (Saint James Infirmary Books, 2012). Her poems, articles, and translations of French and Russian literature have appeared in journals and zines including The National Review, POETRY, The Hudson Review, Able Muse, Mezzo Cammin, LIGHT Quarterly, MEASURE, Unsplendid, and DM. She lives amid the bayous of southern Louisiana with her husband, the prose writer Jason Reeser, and their children.
DM LIV ~ Lagniappe ~ 
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