opportunities to wear black lipstick
present themselves with surprising
regularity in this city.
shiny glossy expensive black laquer,
borrowed from a beautiful underage stranger.
she’s dating the photographer;
he’s shooting everyone but her.
i want to tell her to take care of herself,
but mostly you just need life to tell you that,
as you get older and are open to hearing it.
dive bars (a constant) transition to
bondage clubs (a constant variable).
girl-fighting in a kiddie pool blood bath.
everyone in the crowd leaves with
red-food-colored water on their clothes.
yet their clothes are all black.
so no one is ever the wiser.
[the san francisco equivalent of
“if a tree falls in the forest”…?]
and so it continues.
drugs. new music.
wine. old music.
things that have happened thousands of times.
things that are new.
(…tampon strings in your mouth.
[i tried to tell you.])
candles that throw shadows on the ceiling
and so many other surfaces,
the soft and hard,
and slanted and straight.
no parting shots. just parting gifts.
a green tea kit-kat from japan.
online dating dinner paid for
by corporate expense accounts.
(is there an accounting code for
‘wooing anonymous strangers?’)
(yes- probably in the same section as
‘strip clubs with the VPs from the midwest’
and ‘mid-life crisis prostitues for execs’.)
i feel juvenile.
exposed with no safety nets.
i feel liberated.
i have no regrets yet.