My Theory Of Time

A red dress in memory before I ever got there,
like blood spilled backstage in the brain slinks
into retinas in all my addiction, gravity, fate.
Hell, I could light a cigarette off that silk!
Longing gets shuffled out of all I keep forgot,
as I deja vu downtown amid bouncing rubber pasts,
to say “hello” to the brittlest caste, waiting to be stacked,
lousy aural fog slick upon my ears as I grab a beer
and turn to see an airy throw of sexfire paint
blot across the room, work of a rebel artist god
to prove we all exist. Rewarded so surrendered,
your red dress calls across amniotic seas,
endless bird flock of years, totem of face
and spell of name.

“I think you wore that red dress to meet me.”

“Oh, and what makes you say that?”

“Because here I am.” Again.