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(what happens) At Sunset Cocktail Lounge

Baby pink block letters on bleached sea green, washed out turquoise
Infinitous and from bare feet on wood floor that recedes from foggy dim to darkness
Japanese blue linen strips of curtains hang with their strange straight weight
fluttering at the edges

I’m eating wahoo tacos from a  porcelain plate painted with blue flowers
Blinding sunshine yellow emerges with sincere jingling
Bongos and tambourine and guitar
strum strong
Musicians materialize from the end of the lounge
Their forms are the only lights, bright colors refracting the misted sunshine
Relentless harmonies pungent with chlorophyll green, poppy orange, ketchup reds
curling the rattan into delicate spirals
ceramic and glass discs wind chimes clink glistening radiance

A pan moves around the metal burners in the kitchen
The performers bow and dissolve back into the murky somewhere
Little red bulbs pop on, the wood siding glows
Margo behind the bar
wearing various fringe
Shows me the boarding room upstairs with mats for rolling out
short-bladed ceiling fans rotate
A desk, a chair, a rectangle of balcony and the sound of seashore
“It is the time of the owls,” she tells me as she leaves two super-soft tooth-colored towels on the desk.
Taking out the sleep mat, I watch the grayness hover in the air of the balcony and beyond
Downstairs again, at Sunset of vague discernment, another life reveals itself
Solid abstract geometry of calming quality
A Flintstones car if it were cool jazz or hot blues
clear liquor and lines
guitar and trombone
night-blooming flowers, fat and waxy, burst open and close slowly
pulsing phorescent against the red velvet which has settled like a coating
of dusk

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