JukeBox~

~an inside out memoire of once upon a Pine Ridge night~

simple honey lights

the space between music and a cue

absorbs

the walking flavors

of leather

beer

chewing tobacco

ten minutes to final call

she smears the lipstick with the back of her hand

his gold teeth clicking

handsome

baby blues

in the right light

dyed blood red her hair

caress

white shoulders

sweat down her spine

mentally incarcerated

the drugged town

holds its breath

 

old man

button down shirt

frayed edges

hanging

fingertips on the light glass tapping

jukebox vein

old 45's

 

the bar cracks open the last bottle

conceptually nationalized

a flag

in distress

limp

 

old man

with walnut skin

pops a quarter into the old juke

joker eyes

cataracts

his goodwill boots

his goodwill smile

like old leather

 

red haired woman

gold toothed man

an eight ball

scratch

Nancy Sinatra pollen

"I wake up in the morning and I wonder . . . ."

pool stick with blue tip

green olive speared on the tip of a plastic sword

 

old man

with cataract miles

dirty fingernails

boot toe tapping

she pours her milk into the shadows

pearl earrings

her eyes

the only albino girl for a hundred thousand miles

whistles

lipstick stains on her chin

"Show me the calf that is like me."

 

gold tooth dims

knows better than to mess with ancient magik

like hers

he's a slave

to her sphinx smile

the cream of her dangerous mind

a lingering reminder

on his tongue

between missing ribs

 

old man

white out girl

her arm loop through his bend of elbow

two step

out the bar

years roll by in thunderclouds

jukebox waves

pushes  her cradle of power

through the open door

into the mighty unknown

drum roll

Nancy sings

a calf with a recessive jean

reflects a falling star

pink eyes blink

the music

spreads itself a canvas of stars

for a picnic above a mighty nation

line dancing

through every storm

with spurs on

 

 

 

 

 

 copyright:2010vssmd/pa.inc.

AL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Parker Pearl]

i really dig this. definitely a throwback to beat poetry, more kerouac than ginsberg i'd say. the piece was mysterious and alluring, i could literally feel the sweat soaked bar and beer stained streets, feel the discomforting vibe of whatever ritual was enticing the characters. good s**t.

[Brad]

fwew......that last line had a tack in it and i stepped on it in bare feet...keep pouring...i'm drinking

[Robin]

this stanza ,
"the bar cracks open the last bottle
conceptually nationalized
a flag
in distress
limp"

and those last lines - ooh

memories hold so many little details, subtle landmarks, a re-tracing of where, overlayed on now

[Dream Weaver]

I really wish I could find something wrong with
this write..Pun intended...But I can't, once again
such an amazing piece Selene :)