SUNDOWN II
Everything fits on a thin white strip at the edge of the known world,
poised on the main event horizon, counting down, waiting for night.
Everything sits on the brink of an atmospheric lust and hallelujah,
fuming incense illusion, magic thinking and a wily cut-fish instinct.
Everything sprawls under a ten watt bulb like tempting leftover ham
where a honey-mustard blonde gathers her saffron attitude shawl
and makes her way down the edge of the freshly cooled-off boulevard
and over to the babes-in-beer-land, brass rail club and meat market.
Hand warm jacket leather slides well, feels good on naked impulse,
rides up waxy on the body swells and curves, takes a deep dark shine.
A whorl of chance wheels awaits new encounter, parks cars at the foot
of road haven palisades and river twinkle popcorn chains of new light.
Each white door on the black heart horizon opens out, takes you inward,
loosens up that flower petal stiffness, irons out your checkerboard cloth.
Too dizzy from smoke-filled lungs the second hand chatter falls cryptic on
underwater eardrums in between candlelit alcoves of babe consciousness.
A sea cork and fishnet wharf den flounders fishtail, heaving with
naughahyde nausea, on board swing lamps, loquacious ear noise
and driftwood panels, queasy bright like the hot neon stab
of a hat pin thru the eye to the back of the brain, disconnecting
gray celled logic from a highball zombie head banger bar.
And passed out cold on the terracotta floor, still partly in the lavatory door,
you boogie on through the soft gray poetry of sunset replay music video,
brain on fire, calling out to the fine lavender mist of your misplaced self
with your quivering hand on the reset button, the other on your forehead.
"You all right, y' want me to call 9-1-1 for ya, baby? "
But, slowly you rise and gather your saffron attitude
and make your way back up the cold edge of town.
ŠJimmy Warner Design, 2010
