Waltz or Carafe
Scratch the throat of Los Angeles. This
is the mouthpiece of a secret
basement within an earthquake
submerged behind a dive in local
zipcodes. Rub against the
billboard
rim like a diver for a lemon
twist. Thump up a staircase
four-count.
Shout “along a million faults
I waltz” and burn dividends
for the house red necromancy.
When
you nod in place and return a
girl
to her shade of maples. Shimmy
and ache.
Shake and trade an eye for a
Geiger.
Order soda and fizz in the
telephone
cabinet spitting out numbers.
When I step to
and in arrangements. When I flash
a taxi
and you are sorry or somebody’s
cousin.
Buy me a whole barrelful. Look
down the room
like it is the future. Play a
tune
on a first name basis. I am
conciliatory
in complete erasure. Dancing by
myself
and inside a suitcase. When I’m
mixed
with vermouth and poured into a
groove
in the ceiling. When I’m carried
through
a minor suite. When I’m the
removed thumb
of the morning, add water. The
moon is
setting and I’m getting the
feeling
