Open Mic at Art6 Gallery

Open Mic at Art6 Gallery

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

The Club On The Corner

Illegal lap dances,
a little business on the side,
underage libations;
Yep, it all happened
and no one said a word.
Why should they?
It was all in good
hush-hush fun.
But in this town,
a place where they
try their darndest
to make it as
family friendly as the
pretty pictures displayed
on the interstate billboards,
they shut it all down,
even made the owner
float down the county
streams in jailbird orange.
That way the city streams
could stay clear to let the
leaders wash their hands
clean.  But no matter
what may come next to that
club on the corner,
no one will ever strip away
its naughty side.


Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Poem To A Club Dancer

I wish you could save me,
save me from the mundane world
of the church ladies praying
I will be the one waiting
at the altar for their daughters,
standing at the ready to take
the place of man in their dreams.
I wish I could bring you
to stand by my side and show
everyone the type of woman
I dream about, let them see
your curves and your legs and
the way you know how
to use them both.
But I need to stop dreaming.
I can see you right
in front of me in the flesh,
but you are still just an
imaginary character playing
to the far-fetched fantasies
we pay accordingly to get
a peek at what we want to have.

He Got A Good Woman

My preacher friend said,
Don’t hate, appreciate
Your blessing is coming.
So I appreciate her,
a good woman,
a good sexy woman,
a good sexy woman
who loves her man with
a groovy kind of love
that makes that guy smile.
Wishing ill will would be
a punk move by me,
only showing that I was
nothing but a vessel of
jealousy and envy. So
when he smiles, I’ll smile.
His happiness means he’s
been blessed and I know
it’s only a matter of time
until I get blessed, too.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

A Night of Drinking

It all started in a strip club,
drinking a beer, watching a
less than attractive brunette try
to coerce dollars from the men
sitting around the stage.
Too bad she couldn’t dance a lick,
the only person tipping her
a weathered old man wearing
faded denim and a trucker’s cap
with a rebel flag on it.
That’s when I saw him,
an acquaintance from years before.
We met at a bachelor party for
a mutual friend, a sordid affair
where ten young males
drank themselves to oblivion
as we watched a stripper do things
to Life Savers and quarters that
none of us had ever seen before.
Remembering that started our
conversation, a talk about nothing
in particular, just as another duo
of less than average women
sauntered in front of us, ready
to dance. Then he made a proposal:
We would blow this place and
hit the town; I was driving, he
was buying.  Of course I did what
any other young, red-blooded,
up-for-anything male would do;
I got ready to drive.