#ja-

es mexicano

(Mama said not to marry a white girl, I'm desperate)

On w-w-whim he who you should be kissed her finger tips and led her hands away from the viola and towards the keys. Never forget the hazy staccato verses overlapped with lazy four/four beat drums and a tint of reverberated Monticello guitar strums.

[Saxophone, s-s-solo]

She doesn't hop, she sways never hoping for tender looks.

Bathing in the 40 ounce aroma of the negro band.

Eyes closed.

Hips not European.

Hounds with champagne foaming at the mouth.

The atmosphere settles into amnesia and it all begins.

Fox notices a familiar.

She pokes her hand out of the stage,

[Intoxicated men swindle]

he takes it and she descends.

He's the first to admire:

"Oh how beautiful was your croon. Did you sing about your wolves or my deers?"

"Neither darling, it wasn't music... It was tears"

"Let me lick my lips 'fore I finish m—"

"My daddy told me you were odd."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, he said you were the son of a machete that was lost during this country's time in the Dominican Republic."

"Let me lick my lips 'fore I finish my drink."

[Guzzling,guzzling g-g-guzzling, fuzzing, fuzzing, f-f-fuzzing]

These men around are the savage contrast/he drinks with the calm February ocean in mind.

"Listen gringa, you're coming home to the island and the apartment, the heat and the breeze, the life and the vacation.

Eyes,the Caribbean Sea but the prized cow's milk was drenched all over her. To Daddy it was a gift. To Papi a porcelain lady needed a brown tint.

Pale and mouth agape she was amazed at his remarks. By the time she awoke it was morning and the tears had long been gone.

[Straight out of the 97 club, with a drink; seltzer and a hint of gin/g-g-guilt.]

(Excuse my stutter; nothing mentioned should be retold)

[Cold breeze, slim mink, a martyr to the cause,

"How so darling?"

"BECAUSE OF FASHION BABY BE CASUAL BABY"

skinned, skimmed, and primed for the coat]

"You sure are bombastic. Like negro jazz after summer dusk."

"Hush hush, I'm the heat here."

"The pistol? La pisstowlaw?

"If that's the only Spanish you know then it's true that tonight it'll snow."

"Don't mock me darling! What do I have to do to make you happy?

"Will you sing for me when, like my grandfather, I go blind?"

"This doesn't seem original. Are you yourself?"

"Si no te preocupes."

"I love it when y—"

"I know, don't talk, just walk."

(The specter described ain't my mama's boy.)

[S-s-shuffling wind boxes at the arteries/city lights and city life/it's not the hood but]

No gloves, just a sizzling grasp on the waist of her fox. Shade gets thrown at them by early morning seven day evangelists and late night rail cart westerners: Spick, hick, jungle fever, island lover. The shouts turn into sounds, that's all.

Colors don't matter.

Nihilist to the synesthesia.

They indulge in the night while alley fights rage on in spite of the moon. Clean wardrobe but the only motel open was the Cabaña 97. Instead he took her home to the apartment where the water wasn't clean.

No seltzer.

No gin.

The teaser trailer is up, and I'll be working on my ~acting chops this Wednesday on set.

I know a bunch of you are excited for Game of Thrones coming back on the 31st, but think of it this way-Apples 2 Ostriches will tide you over, and keep your GoT hearts warm with the hard work me and my fellow classmates have put into it.

...