(reposted from Tuesday, April 19, 2016)
She consorts with puppets . . . no strings attached . . .
in a room filled with bobby-soxers
where she is subjected to the free passes
of agents who feign muteness
to fake Stradivari's signature
while playing stoop-ball with bassoonists smoking joints.
Weed is dressed to kill.
She loves basement bashes . . . un-posing . . .
and underclothing worn out.
The streets criticize her player-piano introductions
bottlenecked on bridges during rush hour.
Her wherewithal has caught on
with post-coital interviewers
who tweet at double-headers
where triple plays are as commonplace
as nosebleeds.
Costumed for night . . . she seldom rides shotgun
saving her literary lollipops for footnotesand phony phone numbers floating in her wake . . .
her long legs spanning one and a half sidewalk cracks.
