I want to write blue movies
for Lifetime for Women, torrid scripts
with 30-something Tori Spellings in ’em,
champagne flutes,
plunging
necklines,

and bad actors wearing wine-dark
sharkskin suits.

My heroine shall be so clearly
out of her depth, at Vanderbilt
Law School, we glimpse her

good side all a-rinse
in blue pools of torchlight
carried for a Sensitive Dude
with ram-straight Ichabod
spine, alpine scent, longish
Fabio locks
and Alan Jackson
accent: “Damn straight darlin’
and it’s a high time we went…”

When my torrid Tori
is two thirds done in

by the blood-red
hedge fund sharks,
she makes a run
for it, in cigarette speedboat chase
down the flank of Gulf Coast, her blond tresses

windblown, lashing a ghostly face, rooster tails,
sea spray, roseate remains
of the day…

Oh, I so
want to write
these blue light
movies—it’s
never too late
for the turning,
roiling white

water roundabout,
180 degrees and Sensitive’s
done hooked up all the damned
hammerheads safely in a heroine’s
barrel, crow-hitched— slick
as a rickshaw to a
slow boat … at the end
of her rainbow, Tori is

a tort lawyer! She’s got Sensitive
Boy scissored in her pink marble
foyer; ah, the tresses of Tori, 29 kinds
of new Cool Whip, from corded neck to
writhing hips, arched
backs, jump

cut, bump and grind,
meeting of the minds – lobe-biting,
nail-raking trip-hammer tandem,
mysterious, this here
script writing,
comes on randy
and at random.

Happy endings
are just niches, brimming
w/ ambition, I wish to write
these movies
for a lifetime,

for women.