Quietly, inside at the salon tonight. Evening jazz is tracing circles around our sprightly carbonated heads,
clocked going in slow motion treads.
Laughing through milkshakes,
laughing as they're slammed optimistically across the tilt of the earth, whizzing past our patron saint of sparkling limelights. The night, it spreads--
through painted walls, it swoons underfoot--and our heads dance a jukebox dance.
Within the parlance of our furtive gaze
lies the death and life of Great American synapses
aflutter in the veins of our decision tree.
When I gaze into a pale, blue, expanding world--
I feel myself exsanguinating into the lovely open sky.
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