Inside a Monday night cantina on 
the east side of Austin, the 
cracked concrete floors.  Were
stained with mops to look 
like cobbletone.  Black plastic 
grapes, a layer of dust on their 
thick leaves, woven overhead  
through a lattice too thin to 
hold their weight.  Two flamenco 
roses; our teeth marks gnawed 
into the stems.  The taste
is the smell of grass; our faces 
close enough to all but sample 
your bite: gentle, deliberate 
and intense.  We dance.  A trail 
of colors bouncing wall to 
wall like neon tetras in a tank,  
we ricochet cannons of light.  
Scattering, shimmering, 
pulsing through what was 
until this dance.  Another cloud 
of dreams descending on 
the half-closed eyes of night.



12 nov 01
M Madison