.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.