Gypsy in the Mirror
The first time I saw you that blonde hair shook like
a brook down your back. You held the grin of Huck Finn and I'd wondered where
you'd been. Teen of the jungle.
You had a tantalizing cottonmouth
tongue that could seduce any snapeing speculation, situation, or
stretch. Irresistable irie ire Irish broad.
Filled to the chimney's brim
with emotion, you tap danced on the lid in slow motion.
Staring at yourself in
a cherry wood mirror. I have never seen
Aphrodite any clearer.
In our first townhouse we lived.
Alcoholic dealers dancin' on squealers.
Nights of five star puppet shows none
can remember happening.
Of eyes smoked red, stomachs drank long
necks and you stole me for a captain's round.
Many manana our heads cried pound.
Open toothed laughs, squinty eyed smiles.
Worshiped Kerouac, wore a bowl's hair style.
You stared at yourself
in a clouded mud puddle.
Fizzled out your thought
with a Liggett light lacuna.
The first time I saw it, I denied I saw it. I hadn't seen you.
I sat atop my porcelian privy
Bellyaching about Jenkin's newest diddly.
While you stared at yourself
in my dirty bathroom mirror.
Hit me while you hit your crack jack glass.
Chased the white dragon into ice euphoria.
All you said was"Veen of the yungle."
The first time I saw it, I denied I saw it
four months.
Your operatic Valkyrie curves had dissolved to
clothed coat rack.
You stood like a broom still in the air, swept
like cobweb and dust dancer.
Cheekbones of soaked blanket over stone.
I'm no match for your slips of silky suave lingo.
I stare at you in your slick metallic mirror.
A bavarian gyspy slowly dancing next to me,
asks me, if I see her.
