I watch for any sign of erotic life.
The sun set in my bedroom.
Feeling the Pasadena heat roll out to the shores of Africa.
I would never kill white zebras, but I hunt for the shadowy figure of John Huston playing cat & mouse with some elephant.
I meet Anais Nin who whispers that she hates panties, dropping them from my ceiling;
black lace mini things that would never fit my woman's hips.
I smell the soft cologne of lavender waft through my open window.
Who has arrived?
Ava Gardner with her cat's eyes, peer from my closet door.
She licks her finger tips and throws me a wink.
She's wearing my leopard blouse and Anais' panties.
She tells me the tale of the Yogi she almost had,
Of flirting with Churchill,
& giving head to Hendrix.
I don't think about work.
I don't think about a future undiscovered.
I just have one wish . . . that I could kick back nude in my bed,
To bask beneath my paper Buddha lantern while getting drunk;
Perhaps making sexual advances upon myself . . .
I'm gonna call in sick tomorrow.
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