In homage to Rosalyn Drexler

I am the thighs of Rosalyn Drexler, growing up in the Bronx between the tomato-stained sheets and stolen jewellery. Diamond tie-pinned, gold watch giggles cut up in some Harlem loft as the Russian immigrants click-clack the Mahjong pieces endlessly.

This is Sunday morning and everyone knows.

Lumpy plaster accretions as Rosa Carlo, the Mexican spit-fire flies across the canvas. It's to smithereens and sweated leotard.  I am tried and wary as the mistress strikes my heart.

Look see, they are chasing down Marilyn… run, run inexorably toward the death of Dealey Plaza. The Kornblee Gallery, glee girl sandwiched between the Warhols and the Lichensteins. It's love and violence left indeterminate somewhere between male and female, black and white. Just Bull Connor in some crazy ice-cream phallus and is it really true what they say about Dixie?

I won't hurt you she says as she fades from screen.