VOLUME 7 TABLE OF CONTENTS BOOMER One more gray-haired, boomer, saxophone justification raises a pointed eyebrow of intoxication, moves one pair of smooth legs onto a swirling field of mirrored-ball starlight to shuttle alone across the nameless distance between stellar polka dots and the edge of a plywood stage. She slides through her slick rimmed identity, old enough to project her bare shouldered warmth to side with a spot laundered man, bay rum scented, hiding his gray underwear life behind a lackluster saxophone. Air chemical mating begins as a moldy horn heats up a phosphorescent dialogue of legs and jazz with growls horn-made to her tight satin fanny-moves. A sudden music comes down from ceiling wires attached to ideas too thought provoking, too much endowed with brass interlocking, small motor gear-works and planetary cogitation of ellipses. Bending back and forth in a prayer struggle, he wails an unknown language, too full of breath and broken speech. The man alone groans on, fondling each blind note, warming the space the girl leaves sadly behind.
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