Dawn wads up some
crepescular negritude,
like finding John Brown's body bruised
back into the hollows of your dreams. He'll just
give you Mingus' number;
porkpie hat cocked soddenly cheerful
in the surprise snow of March passing.
Out on the
white house
lawn,
Dawn sheds her dress in flirty
ripples of prodigal light. Aime
Cesaire and Georges Braque
count the spirals on a notebook
of misplaced real estate, where
misplaced people fight an invasion
of strip malls. They'll always win, just
won't notice it. You lie back
in your leopardskin pillbox chair,
dawn nodding out on morning's
solipsistic shoulder, and let me
calculate through your veins
these seconds before water
slaps us in the eyes
to wake us up.
2003/03/31 07:04:19
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The Best Part of Classical Conditioning is Salivating When I Hear Your Name
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