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Contraband heroine;
Ice packets, ice prophets.
Plumes of iridescent
Neon and platinum shimmer
Like blacktop mirage;
Curving glass hums against
Flickering butane rockets:
Blue and white edged by red
To white, to gray --

Explosive brilliance
Of boulders tossed into a still pond.
Circles of blue and black
Distend out forever --
Disturbing pageantry:
A gentry with esoteric delusions,
Of substandard highs and
Irreproachable lows.

Deranged phychobabble in three stanzas.
Thrown chairs shatter, raging lunacy howls,
And the Mossberg speaks in twelve-gauge shot.
The lifeline death; her breath is
Sweet like flowers,
Her one night stand, eternity;
She glides, in gossamer gown,
And stoops, thin fingers lifting the
Hard White stone.

saw woman in a red callico dress, thin sun dress and she had long slender legs pressed into nude-leather open-toes shoes with a pressed leather heel. Her toe nails were plum. The skin of her legs was translucent and pale and smooth. The dress covered her upper thigh but the hip was smooth under the thin fabric and her smooth tummy rose to a round bosom. Her arms were slender and her nails were short and natural. Her eyebrows were strong but her hair was dark and full and fell to her shoulder in one splash. Her skin was clear and her mouth was full and she sat there in the cafe nursing a coffee shake with a guy friend and I caught her eye and she looked at me and I couldn't read my Gravity's Rainbow -- then a friend of mine came in and we went outside for a cigarette and she left past us looked back and she and he took off in a civic... but her slim pale legs winked at me once more as she drew them into the car then she shut the door and as she passed I followed her and she smiled and left into the night in the white japanese import.

Her hot pants dance and dazzle
Feet flutter under pale spinning calves.
Her Skin is spread taut under the
Taut cloth of her orange tunic,
It presses against nippled breasts.

The hair crashes and splashes against
Her shoulders -- their chocolate waves spread
On awkward shoulders.
She jounces and pops hair into a
Feathery fan -- then into a
Knot upon the fragile scalp.

Twisting, hopping and grinding hips
Pop hard in the new unripe
Peach delicacy -- the cleft cut crisply
Between flared pelvis.

Her breasts hop, not bounce --
They are the prologue to her body and
I am dazzled. They
Have a loft like steam.

Like drops of semen on sheets
As good as, just as unjust
The flair, the curve, the line is
Preposterous.

Formed like a girl
Built like a woman
Upon the great frame
Female -- feast your eyes.

What is herstory?
I want that budding breast in
My mouth. I need that Thigh
flesh bunched between my fingers
To squeeze. To smell, to lick, to bite.
I need to feel the bloom of petals under
My hand like sunstars -- that sticky
Hot mucous that burns fingers.

Can't get lost here where
the streets are long and
helpful, large signs and
billboards beckon and indulge
drivers to explore without
fear of becoming lost.

No getting lost in Houston
where there is always a richmond
or main or montrose greenbriar
to set one straight through the
cafe airs to the theaters in the
avenues, the gaudy capitalism

had to rent a japanese car in houston?
there's no option

Rothko

Octagonal Chapel with Skylight
Dark canvas panels
Purple Panel Majesty
And the stroke of the brush
in the dusty oppression of
the low sky through the skylight
tromp d'oeil, i cannot see the
texture as these works are too
subtle for the neophyte for to
me, the works were a somber
memento to that which is spirit,
the dire seriousness of the other
as we pass from here to there
trying to be severe but for some
reason, i am being told more about
the severe than i feel for i feel
not in the house of god, but in
a queer room, dark and dank,
without residence, vacant in its
sparsity. Challenging as I am not
sure if nihilism wasn't the intent
after all. After all, what can the
intent be?