Her tongue is a tuneing fork, clear precise tones, always instructing to take the right, as long as it is in the same directiion as the left, slowly unrolling the panoramic landscape to divert my attention from the road, until I have completed the begining to arrive at the end upon the painted sands.

She is always in those faked..elegant places called
"The Loft," where they keep the air conditioning so cold that they can wear ranch mink jackets with hoods and false eyelashes, and big diamond rings
made from all of their past wedding bands. She sits
in the Flamingo pink ,neon glow, listening to "String of Pearls" on an antique Wurlitzer with her friends
Mercedes and Portia, but they really don't know
each other.

We have adapted to this hot hell she calls paradise,
at least that's what the realtor tells us.
So we wear flowered shrouds, full and concealing...and I watch her smear scented whale oil, full of wax, upon her reddened, wrinkled skin,
massaging it into plumpness, becoming beautiful from the slide of grease.

Here in the desert, any tenure is dry death...where
the Moonflower fears the bloom of the scorching
day and the cactus pump themselves up in rotund

She leaves me for the evening, having satisfied
herself with excuses for returning late and I have only the ghost of her dried and preserved voice.

So I summon a little Sparrow of the dusk from the sinking sun that embraces black rocky ridges glowing with welded holes entwining their weave
upon the horizon and we laugh at love. We scratch
a heart upon the rising Moon, to bleed it's silvery beams upon every clinched bud, but at dawn we flee upon the back of sacred cows that know the way home.

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