Thursday, September 17, 2015
By Joan Reese
Jukebox rocks, two dozen hardworking dusty men,
Bent elbows lean, Gold liquid flows
Glass rises, lit cigarettes talk.
She poses on a white piano bar,
scantily clad; slow moving, bending,
grinding, shaking, gyrating.
She blows kisses
to admiring eyes
with lustful wishes.
Cleo's little girl dream
of being rescued
fades with each midnight hour.
She spins around, steelscissors held high.
Scissors reflect mirrored walls;
penetrates smoky beer air.
The scissor flashes down
cutting a hole above her heart.
Cleo offers the red satin circle,
Keepsake for the trucker who watches.
He believes, "She dances for me."
He offers up a dead President.
She cuts a hole here
cuts a hole there.
Soon she can start her own government.
It's hard to know where
first hole began or
last hole ends.
Friday, September 4, 2015
"What a desolate place would be a world without a flower! It would be a face without a smile, a feast without a welcome. Are not flowers the stars of the earth, and are not our starts the flowers of the heaven."
- A.J. Balfour