We Made for the Sunset Parades

From the cool-tone browns and greens of summer
to red umbrella concealing a kiss
to the dawn Devil’s flying cream-colored dollars
at group exhibitions that have new hours hence.

We slipped from cottage studios slumbering on the Bay
and motored melancholy carriages that fit any age
thinking fitness and workouts and secrets to success
sleeping on bright orange benches mirrored by artists in space.

I held you so close, sipping the whitest fine bubbles
among infinite sandwiches and delights from the past
that unhurriedly strolled with former sobriquet characters
who are lost in the storm of urgency.

We warmed in a passage of reminiscent bliss -
you smiled ever-so-slightly, content in the rain;
we read “Captain Tomorrow and the Wolf-land Spies”
just in from the best-seller list.

I digressed into rhythmic complexities
while you melted into gallery spaces
and we reemerged in a quantum instant
bearing imploding fabulosities.

I took the square root of two, you brandished a ratio
and we wet our demeanors with ragtime and jazz
in irregular heartbeats and frenzied cantata’s
sung by the ghoulish tapestries.

Such is were days, as if player pianos
gave concerts of abstract solo bizarreness
that you stuffed in a drawer as you took out your pen
and shook the daylights out of it at me.

We ran to the beaches, played tag with the waves,
lotioned each other with roars from the caves
that held studies in ice ages telling their tales
in wall-spattered releases of once primal wonders
clad in the latest rage.

We still loved beating the African conga’s
to Polish Mazurka’s in triple-time beat
as played by Chopin with sausage rubato’s
practicing entrances on the grand promenade.

So that was our day – in cast-iron gratings
adorning a charm long etched in a vase
that rolled out the window and sat on the bleachers
cheering the sounds of bicycle chains.

“Some vase,” I exhorted, just to exhort it,
and you replied, “Quanto” just to hear how it rings;
and we caught the next trolley that strayed into gullies
stuck in portraits of celluloid flings
written post-script to spice-up the thing.

“Time to go now,” so we grabbed a brisk platter
of well-spread bresaola on burrata cheese
and, with spoons clad with rubberized focaccia soldiers
we made for the sunset parade -
and I noticed your eyes, content, strange and quiet
as we made for the sunset parade.

We Made for the Sunset Parades

rage-of-wbiro

Joined June 2009

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

A versed depiction of surreal togetherness.

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