Inside a Monday night cantina on
the east side of Austin, the
cracked concrete floors. Were
stained with mops to look
like cobblestone. Black plastic
grapes, a snow of dust on their
leaves, woven overhead
through a lattice too thin to hold
their weight. Two flamenco
roses; our teeth-marks gnawed
into the stems. The taste
is the smell of grass; our faces
close enough to all but sample
the bite: gentle, deliberate
and intense. We dance. A trail
of colors bouncing wall to
wall like neon tetras in a tank,
we ricochet cannons of light.
Scattering, shimmering,
pulsing through what was
until this dance. Another cloud
of dreams descending on the
half-closed eyes of night.



12 nov 01
M Madison
decblndr01