Monday, June 1, 2009


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.

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