I saw her. Tonight went out. History silenced, time faded; there wasn’t night, just happening. The piano was hot; he wore white and black and black, slicked hair on white skin. No distraction that way, the piano was our focus. Not her and I--“our”--the sixty winos proper and I, sixty dulled, dimmed senses saw her; but, I saw her. She wore red, same as the wine. Crayon box burgundy, she wore red; but, I saw her. I saw in her. I saw into her. I saw her.
I saw her moments as building bricks. I saw her bricks built Keroac’s dark castle. I saw cyclical spires. I saw higher and higher the tower trap. Barred, I saw her, unduly. I saw honest, simplistic and personal contrition at the sad, greater human condition; I saw fuming in a softhearted daughter. I saw her soft, ready for any and many; I saw her diaphragm taut in a dharmic belly carry the tune of a love all, vacuous Zen melody.
I saw her. There was a piano, winos: vapid chatter. But, I saw her. I saw in her. I saw into her. I saw her.
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