She often spoke in rhyme or verse.
A strong semi-classical face.
Decked out in shocking pink.
And who needs a bra?
Her mother was a sorceress.
She has the power to move
objects with her mind.
An ambiguous mystery
wavering between good and evil.
Rising early on Saturday
mornings to watch cartoons.
Coffee enemas laced with hallucinogens.
She has the power to
turn men into murderous zombies.
Sailing into treacherous waters.
Storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
You must make her stay.
Faced with the ghosts of
the past, your summer love
will fade like a press-on tattoo.
Mounting a furious campaign
to find a new love by Columbus Day.
Taking a transatlantic cruise to Zanzibar.
Then, in the rain forest
somewhere near the Indian Ocean--
bees and wasps and flies.
Calls of a thousand strange creatures.
Back in the sunny land
you practice the changing of reality
like a film with an alternate ending.
It is going to be a night to remember.
The scent of sandalwood from an open doorway.
The thrum of guitars.
Crimson And Clover over and over.
The sun sets in her amber eyes.
The ink black night.
A veil of white.
The sound of rain,
sharp, like the pangs of regret.
A handful of dust.