DANCING WITH MOONLIGHT SHE SPEAKS

 
Moonlight dancing, moon dancer and me,

she takes me through a lot of old dives.

Twirling her in the front and out the back

I live a slew of lives, driving on through,

in and out of boon dock motel bars, the arms

across from red door alley gigs out behind

the transient temple of blue flashbacks.

 

Unthinking spiritual moves before dawn,

my attempts to coax and wake the sound lotus,

makes a one-hand-clasp in a cheap embrace.

We jive aligned with the instant season

filling up skies with reasons to die for,

one sweet body glides alone within the music

hot with fresh perfume restored to life.

 

Before any troubles start to tremble 

I revive her purple rose, her calendar girl,

a slowly poured pearl of a work in progress.

All of her once forbidden dream adventures

converge to slough my skin as slow motion

hikes her silken see-thru rose print dress

and sculpted heels change weight in rhythm.

 

She talks with a high-strung sostenuto,

mood driven repartee, each postured round

with end notes balanced over balconies, 

tooting in the new with tears and joyride.

Still out of rhyme and the ladder's reach,

her chain of color swings above the room

in the hope of a magic human encounter.

 

Out-of-body partner, my remaining ounce,

we are the scheme of things here, she says,

all breathing voice of nostalgia reaching out

reviving the life of the night in pure faith

that I know to begin with has no point beyond

a scatter of shoes, and all the new tunes

that clearly awaken the same old static moves.

 

The hump beat of thrombosis concludes

when she sings aloud her pasty whiteness,

drives her tequila worm paleness of being.

The frail morning approach of glimmer finds

me and moonlight memoirs waltzing back

to dismal digs onto sweat dark couches,

wanting the rest of our life to start fresh.

 

One severely happy gospel girl melts her

perfect hair on a greasy pillow next to me,

her loins massaged by dawn's pink digits.

Sculpted feet are strewn about like boats

as she heads for the shadows of her own

dreams, lightheaded with endless blooming.

White sheets thrown aside enfold the day.

 

Moonlight makes her complex impressions,

as a girl who not only symbolizes orientation,

but represents my astral plane sensations.

Despite the wolves that bemoan our bliss she

goes as light on her feet as her words allow

like a snow glitter babe in a tiny white globe,

through seductive worlds we whirl around in.

© Jimmy Warner, 2001