not the ocean, not this time

is it the light, or some crazy permission of lipstick
on cheekbones. fluorescent. I want to know
where the blondes dressed as gypsies
are going. Saturday in Venice, not Italy, California.
a fantastic party, play in dress rehearsal, orgy.
not orgy, too many clothes, too elaborate
for imminent removal. small mirrors on his vest,
boots, her hat is fur, necessarily fake. earlier,
the beautiful dreadlocked man lifted his son
onto a stool, then down again. I want to be held
like that, raised and lowered like a cigarette, easy
and burning. the girl with the braids smiles, I'm part
of the circle or it's just the light again, night outside, in here
thick salt air, marijuana smoke from the sidewalk.
polyester shirt adjusts his jester hat, it's not surreal.
it's California, Saturday, Abbott Habit, cold,
an ocean over our shoulders. seeming to be asleep.