Save us.
To the tone of Coltrane's Alabama. Let no alibi slide by like a lamb in tribal paints or a candid haint running alone on train tracks that real living humans can notice and act upon unstrike their poses to run from Save us.
Then I tried to write about my craving for watermelon like it was lie. When that went idle I wrote a ballet for naked dancers in a plexigrass field of mirror stages and they sat in a fractal and ate whole watermelons for the first 2 minutes while the audience looked on, waiting and craving a taste. Then the only woman in the ensemble rose, spun on her axis like a desert rose for a few glad bars, pulled an axe-looking instrument out from her harness and slayed the casual chicken who had been traipsing around on the stage just signifying blackness and pretty blood collapsed into a pattern that resembled the closing curtain.
