she has a steady hand, blue ink, a curly seven with two horizontal lines, on the back of a crisp business card...impressive penmanship...fine motorskills in a heap at the door.
taupe and gold, magenta and cobalt, like the lake where her heart has been scattered and collected for years
wolves approach, panting from behind tall cream columns, a vampire hangout. velvet lounge, tiled floor that seems to get farther and farther away as the night wears on.
a photo booth: the first is a blur; the second, awkward familiarity; the third, forced sobriety and a stolen kiss; the fourth, a tilted + sheepish grin.
montages arise like traces of smoke: hablas espanol? yes, i used to live in cuba, not in havana, in vinales. i'm a lawyer...criminal defense. i work with bankers. and criminals. i'm an artist. unoriginal. and framed. he's in australia. i'm visiting from london, love.
one foot on the table, and one on the floor. robin's egg blue lacquered toes, ivory lips, holding court. how tall are you? all reason is banished, caged for the evening.
the black-crow-and-plaid masquerade is snuffed out with a faded french seven and dwindling numbers. a green sunrise finds a waltzed-out cinderella sleeping in the soot with a bag full of clues.
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