This is a recurring dream, it slips into my veins on the best and worst nights warm and vibrating lik blue jazz:
I am sitting in a tunnel, huddled scared and staring, open-- into the hazel eyes of Sarah the wandering angel of San Jose, the cool Sunflower in my brain as Peter Sarstedt fills the blue-bricked walls with, "Where do you go to, My Lovely?"
Shaking my teeth and ribs like old blank dice, lovely accordion sobs- What vibrations! Echoes and blue memories running into the dark. I hear you Peter, She hears you I must tell you that--
and when I wake all that's left are the echoes of my accordion heart and the sounds of traffic over the plucking of red chords in street.