Le juste équilibre
Somewhere
in space...
Every picture
hums a story. Like Canary Islands, like
Norma Jean's loose white towel gently falling,
visual momentum enveloping
her back and sides.... Like thunder on Route 66--
ebb and flow,
twisting the side panels of modernity, of this exquisite
potato crisp. Tracing an Hungarian proto-arc round and around hinting,
teasing the form of the sensuous ****.
Bobby Troup lived to regret that he had, in a weak moment,
suggested that Édith Piaf was not a little sparrow.
Merde! Jean Cocteau, almost hidden by
a mass of splendiferous flowing drapery, took umbrage,
arranged in cumulous folds... masked
by the lack of
a moon.
Thin mesh
cotton cloth
hanging-- suspended--
from an unseen surface.
