by Allison Mack
She exists as a construction site.
Penetrating conversations the way a jack hammer rapes the concrete.
Smell her sticky tar, the burnt rubber of a false start imbues itself in hairs lining your nostrils.
She dumps a bucket of her solar powered presentation over your newly lain tarmac,
Hoping to seep into the cracks of any unfilled space;
any porous hole.
Accept the brine of fear that constitutes impression.
Right here is the destruction, construction, de-construction zone.
On the corner of Sunset and Doheny, Gil Turner peels fluorescent caution tape she uses to brazenly strangle herself.
Mistaking the flimsy plastic for a steel coat of amour.
Her gentle tongue encased in the ear of an iron canal.
A mosquito draws blood from the unsuspecting reservoir of platelets,
She will inhale her hit of validation at 6 in the morning on a welfare Wednesday.
Just steps from the window she dissolves into cashmere hot springs
The reptilian skin sweats fervently.
Her dance careens head over heels, she cartwheels into a tumbleweed of excess.
Lovely lady, losing love leaves so many holes to overfill.
Overflow in the midst of chaos and flirt with the truth as you would a married man in a dive bar on a Tuesday night.
“Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir?”
Her overly friendly grandfather sweats gin on the palm of her hand, calming the nerves of falsity as the ice reminds us of the delicacy inherent in relating to temptation with a splash of inhibition coupled with a twist of lime.
Steamroll the bumps that cause dimension and depth.
Flatten til smooth. Even.