Friday, April 21, 2006


the movie I imagine
is all acute angles
echoing chiaroscuro
light and shadow
and somewhere nearby
a gasoline saxophone plays,
its slow sliding burn
sputtering and smoking
in a blue swirling haze.
I loosen my tie
narrow one tired eye
against the curling miasma
pour a hazy shot glass
from the bottom drawer
of a sole-scarred desk
and begin my narration,
a world-weary voiceover
written in fountain pen
foreshadowing the entry
of a well-heeled blonde dame
in a black netted veil
with a mink stole thrown
over her moiré silk gown
who will turn out to be
worse for me than she looks
at first lascivious glance.
No point, really
to any of this
overwrought ennui
existential anomie
and incipient angst
except that
this is my movie
and she says
I look damn good
in this fedora.

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