Don Was

with Don Was at Harvelle's 6/29/09

.123

that thing
has got a hold of me
yet i look
the same

that thing
is tightening it's grip
the mirror
sometimes lies

.121

supine and out-of-love

wall surfing

stiff willed and

and turbulent

chopped down

by infinite fidel,

curled up fetally

puling like a baby

my brain gushes

hot buttered soul
supplanting the gorge while

spitting exorcised truth

gunk-ing the system,

wadding the nasal fossa
killing the flow and

everything in it's path

unpleasantly adapting

to my inner eyelids,

forcing my veins up and out,

pushing it's way through the murk

the moisture massaging

my tympanic membrane

passes thick through with

light white sputtering steam.

.120

fearlessly i chose

at first to flutter

rather than simply

fly away

when that didn't

succeed i tried

a more direct 

approach 

with shallow eyes that blind

time once again turns me into

gelatinous residue

clinging precariously to the rim

rocked,

the demure sods

reject me

roundly and unanimously 

Toledo Show : In The Parking Lot With Dorthea

.119

the failed muscle of creativity

the disappointment of romantic love

the pain of practice

the uncertain present

the words choke me

the cards protect me

the security will save me

the future will want me

.118

our first kiss-

utilitarian for you;

i thought you'd

turn me into a prince.

desireable pink

frontispiece,

stretch wrapped 

in black ice.

back rounded - 

peek-a-booed,  

giggled, jiggled 

perched and

given freely.

you're smiling

like pastry -

desert worth

waiting for - 

vanilla creamed

and addictive.

.117

there's nothing like getting drunk on a monday.
getting drunk,
and spinning around and around
in someone's arms.

it had been hot.
ridiculously hot.
meetings all day.
she was still dressed from work.

she was a malibu blonde, born and bred.
he looked like a music biz promo guy from the mid-70s -
hirsute - bearded; brunette and feathered.
they were sore from fucking.

on a cocaine-fueled tear across the Southland they happened across a blues bar.

tired and wasted,
his crumpled too-tight jeans
were weighted down by 

dirt and moisture from poolside sex and sweat.

blouse & jacket removed - she was stripped down to a soap scented white tank-t loosely tucked in to her business casual.

into each other -

they are suddenly
interrupted by Sir Harry -

a handsome baritone and a helluva dancer - 

leaping off the stage
as he spins a voluptuous pro
expertly across the black and white checkerboard
of the dance floor.

tonight i'm here. 

for a reason.
i need to hear the music -

feel the blues sift thru me 

like fire-y white stars telescoped.

blinding, speechlessly swaying steady.

my heart is heavy.

under a lotus - flushed and reddened -
i'm vulnerable and
impossible to know.