Tuesday, April 21, 2009

MIDNIGHT AT THE CAFE NOIR

Who's been talking? Telling everything I know? Blue Man contemplates beauty in a smoky joint on the edge of town. The music jumps, jives and wails. There's a grill in the back, and a rack of ribs in a steel drum barbecue. Maybe you know the gal with the flower. She's as hot as a red pepper, and sweet as cherry wine.

This is what I call serpent surrealism.