I lay prone throughout Cubafest.

Flies buzzed melodiously in and out of my

transparent head.

I lay on a shirt-covered couch.

I lay among foil and comic book pages,

appliances humming in other rooms.

Soon Layla showed up in a tricked-out car,

bade me accompany her to the fire

anthem celebration two miles

this side of Phelpsville.

I tried, I nodded. I whispered through

the clamor, Enough, later, quiet, quite

a party, sanguine lamps--

but it was thick and rubbery there.

The heat-soaked hexes from Mexico

rowed north in boats. The white

Texan vixens came sailing in too, on brooms.

The place was full of hicks in tuxes.

Brad, that's enough. Play it somewhere else.