"My Daughter la Chola Martina."
Posse come back proud to flashing eyes, a señorita,
as they say.
Little Lady Lords.
Out West, practitioners full of old commercial surf
pop echo or land out West don't work for projection.
Seas, awesome trees in the wind.
Archive wants to voiceover.
The sun ghost, Los Angeles a clean way to hug the young.
Ocean, salt air ghosts the cool expanse of the hour ahead.
We try not to show our eyes until they passed.
Bright white light these days of baby's coming, yeah.
Speech act, better than a day.
Searching eyes can interrupt.
At least she's in it.
That's the success.
Trees shake over brothers or sister trees,
shadow pools for bird traffic.
The record doesn't say.
Sheriff Barton's posse was as white as cute eye shadow,
as a model plane.
They seem to take to the quiet depth,
so well dead cuz La Chola mishandled their guns.
Readily shroud the quiet, record makes
a truth, and beauty kinsman.
Go down nattering.
Sea, moon, little one, our water.