The Tango

In the dark night when rain strokes the hour of two. Naked alone in my chair facing white screen with black holes of hopeful repair. This hope is a frame around the landscape I paint. For I too live in the shadows of a Hollywood glare.

With the tango I can move with eyes closed and the one who guides me disappears in the movement of the trusted union. Here with the tango all thoughts of past company disappear into the distance of old wars and card games. Here in the sliding pavement my feet follow the subtle shifts of gravity. So exposed in my clumsy clothes I take the challenge of the tango. What a sweet feeling to become velvet water, the brief encounter with the other.

Tango I come to you with childish flippers, my rushing sips, tipping light and cutting rags. I come to you removed from sophistication, a waiting appendage, ready to throw it all into an ambiguous soup of happy fish and sentimental drenching. Tango you understated being so tall and unmoved for love and salted sexual calm.  For once we may be able to mount and spill this framed old blood - With its prolonged nectar and heavy heroism - the engines dried up frisky tale.

Here my tango I may hum with the typhoon and glide like strings with broad breasted piano . A yolkie goose sitting peacefuly on my head.

With the Tango we can all wear our narrative flag....above our attic and in our grasp... the tango wishes only for us to be bare and beating. Here now - on the streets - in our face and on our breath - I don't mind if you're alive or dead. The tango leaves all aside. Nice to meet you, good thanks. Now we are talking.