The Good-Girl Habit

Somedays I see myself in other
livings, the chick on the back
of the harley rocking fringed chaps,
hugging speed against the wind;
hovering in poses the windows
of red amsterdam, passing prayers naked
for Monet wannabes, the ballerina
prostitute musing on Renoir, and merlots
which I despise. Maybe something more
biting, like a n.o.l.a. summer without breeze,
after the levies, after the soul fled into
draining straight-a-ways and gutters,
after a night of absinthe and sex
without thinking, set to that song
with gold in her name. dancing in bars
to lightning playing hard fingered
blues like a southern symphony.
I syncopate, I savor the stilt and
stiff staccato strumming,
slow sliding and sweet desiring,
I could lick it up, sweat off the lip,
the girl everyone wanted, biting into
otherwise healthy habits. Maybe I'll take up
Key West and all those cats or Paris,
maybe Anaïs or Henry or New Mexico blossoms.
Maybe the violin. The good girl bragging
in brown bag lunches, the new wave of
american graffitis, of chasing tag-alongs
and deep prairies and their grasses hemmed
into deep seedlings, the pie and the diner.
every other time i look in the mirrors
at my own version of chasing
pastorals, my american mistakes loom
like mushroom clouds over Japan.