and the seas beat

...And the seas beat buttons that push you over.
Roll over,
Wake up.
Roll over.
You check the time quizically, and find that the quixotic lures of past romance don't do it for you no more.
So the quiz as in the test of your metaphoric testes begins.
Have you got the balls to play this intrinsic game of hide the snake any longer?
I dream of Genie?
No I dream of Basquiat, on bycycle, in heroine daze. Eyes glazed over with papier-mache sculptures of Joan of Arc, and Julia Child.
I'm on a quest, and the landscape suggests that the destination is both at my fingertips and far behind.
So possibilities are endless.

Lydia, Dear Lydia, Lydia the tattooed lady.
Will this be the fall of me?

Waiting for the moon-rise

Here at the begining of the new phase
The phrases blur, rambunctiously around the lips. Take their jobs not too seriously. Feeling fertile and fancy-free.
I wait for the dryers to stop turning. The rotating imagery forces my belly and periphery to do loop-the-loops.
Its all or nothing.
When you've got three dryers of whites you do not sleep alone.
When you've got four dryers of darks and you are alone, you probably sleep with someone. (In the good way).
The longest half hour of your life starts after work and ends at the local pub drowned in chartruese.
To match your sweater.
Your favorite color, now 52 proof.