On Paper, She's Tantric / A Festival Lament

Spent the morning upskirting stilt walkers feeling
pedestrian in my open-toed clod hoppers
two-stepping to panflute chords on the cobblestone near
the downtown deli where the white tents
tilt because of the quickly rising water

tawdry tribesmen bartering for the American dollar
dog barking from perfumed closets
got sparkling trinkets spinning on their spindly digits
got my grandmother itching to part with her coin purse for
goat herb and scented smelling soaps
pulling hard on her stiff southern collar
for cleft she cried over African bauble
for purchase I steady this old woman's feeble wabble
stiff vodka tonic twisting up the French daughters waltzing
hip locked spinning in space cowboy boots
grinning with wet lips parted

we up tonight scattered across suburban carpet arguing
endless palaver while on the back porch fiddle queers
squeeze the strings and stroke notes at battle
we up tonight too late sneezing on white witch powder
shit-talking Cajun bloodlines till the taste gets lemon sour
baked on the midnight lawn staring at the results of a white girl's tarot
another Pisces moon lingering mockery
fingering the pink vulvatic pulse of belonging
a slow slipping down into madness for this
forgotten lonely bastard.

TA