The Sleaze and Found Material David Scheier
She takes my picture
in red lit dusk. She’s a memory
collector—A Kodak wizard in a blue tie-dye sarong.
Dirty Martian martinis drank
on pool-side decks. The boys and I imitate
darts with olive spears. Red Texas sun
melts between glittered clouds and indigo mountains.
We become digital in her hand-
held archive: hands forming false languages,
body shots, stage tongue kisses,
while red eyes peer past photographer.
Take all the pictures you want, I say, my arm loosely around her knuckle nosed friend. A girl too young to be here. Come make memorable your night with me, I whisper in her ear. I am unbound-un-owned. I kiss her shoulder. I’m a mountain, a cloud, atoms and pixels, no one owns that.
Flashes.
Sun evaporates to indigo liquid. We toast. No one owns you. We share a mint julep. She smiles. They all smile, thinking they’re private creatures. I lead her by hand and cigarette; I’m the piper of moments leading them to computer screens, web pages. . . a bedroom.
I can have you, even if just for a second, I tell her, she kisses my cheek, I can have you ALL and your little cameras too.