DFA Writes

Through the Jazzband Haze January 29, 2009

           I remember. I remember every time…she wore that red, velvet, dress. Every time she wore her her long, curly, black hair down and put on her long, black, velvet gloves. Every time she glided over to the microphone, across from my piano, how the dark enveloped her, then dissapated from the waist up as she melted the room with soft, slurred blues, promises of love long after the day is done. All with her Southern French drawl. Oh that red velvet dress, it went on for miles. I remember no matter how much you wanted to keep looking at her, everyone ended up closing their eyes. I remember the way she bobbed on her red, velvet, hips, and swayed in the limelight, holding the microphone like how everyone in the dimly lit lounge must’ve wished she’d hold them. I remember. I remember every time she broke my heart on that stage, but kept the pieces glued together with Southern, French hope just long enough to keep me coming back…just so she could it again. And I remember the way she smelled in the Jazzband haze, the fingers of her fragrance stroking my cheek and the way it perfected the soft heat of the lounge. She smelled like smoke and paradise, like intrigue and innocence, she smelled like sweet, comfortable, darkness.

red November 21, 2008

There was this

apple

it was red, and I don’t mean firetruck red, this was secretary from the forties red. Lace black garter and bustier red. Red. Red like the lips on those innocent-esque girls in the rain, pursed sweetly under their umbrellas, begging for company. That Red. Red like the knee-high cotton socks an all-girl-college-students who know you notice but act like they don’t; with the pale, long legs and that pleated skirt too short not to be there if only to tease. The red of a woman’s lush, tangled hair you wake up in, and wouldn’t mind sleeping in, save that you must run back to the ball-and-chain. That deep red, that passionate red, redder than…Red. So here I am with this red, succulent, vuluptuous, sensous apple and this appetite an anorexic would die for, and who could blame me if I took one bite?