Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Hotel California

Hotel California

The old highway turned cactus round corners.
Burrow Walk Canyon over desert sand dunes
Leads down through stars, with eyes closed
And a breeze that said,
“It’s only you here.  There never was anyone else.”

But the new crystal glass pink champagne
Pulls my head through the blue light courtyard.
Star vases peek through pinhole showers and Nighthawks
Soared, Mission bound, towards the Jacaranda tree
That swirled and pulled through crushed red velvet.

And the girl, the borrowed solace, wrapped her feet
In purple satin; sex was in the mirrors.
Hips figured lies out of the prisoners here and the door #9
Never opens enough to let you go, and
Leave the stale breath.

Under the blue-lit canopy,
the dancers don’t notice we leave.