Last night when all the sounds of our occupations
fizzled into cricket hums and wino gibberish,
a hand found it's way into the grasp of Davia the diva.
Her fingers were smoother than sunglasses on at weddings.
Her palm was pulsating like an L.A. sound stage.
I could smell her hair and it was a garden to remember.
That scent entered my nose the way her silk dress entered my eyes.
All of my senses were programmed to recall her all black ensemble.
Her make -up, her clothes, and her accessories,
made for one magical motion picture.
The only shape she couldn't pull off was a "bad" one,
her curves being independent of thought and able to contort
in ways that only Michelangelo could describe.
We live in times where chariots are not visible anymore
but it's the only way Davia should ever travel.
Cars shielding the public from the Amazon is a travesty.
I'm glad she chose mine to return her home.
Her concert was a modern massacre of the mediocre,
her voice being the last word in phenomenal performances.
I pleaded with the gods to let her see my total awe from the stage.
She moved and sang with improvisation, hypnotizing the audience.
Her smile soaking up all the adrenaline and finally she saw me,
and she did watch me for a second.
Out of her bliss she winked and we connected.
After her final notes put away their daggers,
I replenished my drool supply.
I lingered in the concert hall to purchase her music or heart,
and sure enough there was a prophetic crowd who stole my idea
for they lingered too.
Davia made quick work of them with patented smiles
and laser quick autographs!
Until it was just me at the table and small talk became legend.
She was flattered that I knew her music
in the behind-the-scenes kind of way.
What really stirred the eastern winds was when she,
conjured up her memory of my song writing.
I didn't know she knew me and then the dance became real.
There was hum about the atmosphere and our fingertips were jelly soft.
Where should we go to bury our hopes and see what grows?
Davia smiled and said "take me home".
That was a big deal because someone like her was a Rumor
She was someone we couldn't touch or see without a ticket.
Show after show and road after road never kept her close for long
but right there in that moment she let me into the dragon's lair.
Where to Davia?
"245 East Bailey Avenue" came out as natural as it could be.
She lived so close to me....
She let me in and I suffered a tiny heart attack.
She left me in a den designed for magazines
while she changed into sweatpants which also fit her like her silk dress.
The female form is a remarkable awakening regardless of the time of day.
No matter how foul their mouth or wicked their heart,
their form is like a hallowed geyser springing forth
from the exclusive mind of God.
Moving more than intrepid lust, they shift the boundaries of the observer's heart.
Heaven forbid their brains be just as enticing as their shapes.
That's when they move through the mundane work hours
with potions set to explode in the blink of an eye.
Heaven forbid their talents slip from their lips in musical matrimonies,
sucking vows and lust from the soul of their beholders.
Davia offered me ice cream then and that was poetry to me.
Sometimes actions twist in our sub-conscience until we
dream out loud. I washed her dishes which made her grin.
We sang in harmony just because we could, we were cocky together.
Then I knew the smile she gave me was genuine
and her autograph was patiently written on my heart.
The nightmare of leaving her was in 4K and ever creeping near.
I changed the subject every time silence spoke
trying to prolong the evening which had drained her I'm sure.
But she was a Rumor no more and her flesh and blood
had evolved with the times.
The type of girl you could get a burger with and borrow money from.
She was accessible. She was down to earth. She was sound in a seashell.
And I held her close and listened for a billion moments.
I was writing her letters in my mind as she caressed my chin hair.
Letters I would one day send to
245 East Bailey Avenue.
YOU ARE READING
MY little BROWN BOOK
PoetryThis is a collection of poems I wrote in an attempt to highlight moments of my past. People used to have a little black book they kept numbers and addresses of people they were involved with or interested in. So I decided to share some entries from...
