storeeze

“Okay ladies and gentlemen, we're gonna be in Springfield in six minutes, here. Six minutes to Springfield. Please make it through the aisles to get to the doors on the lower level if you're getting off at Springfield. Springfield next,” bawled the Amtrak PA. She was at the counter of the café car, followed me to a table, tugging on the cotton underwear peeking out of her pants. Flashy red earrings, brown corduroys, dirty tennis shoes, and a thin black v-cut slip-of-a-top. No bra. Pendulous breasts stretched low, swaying in time with the coach. Expressive black eyes with a look of almost childish sincerity, encased in sleepy purple eyelids, on a face worn by care and suffering. She called herself ‘Michael Jackson’. She boasted eight children: ‘Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo and Boo-Cah’. She came to Springfield filled with promises made by a man. A shadow fell when I probed her religion, followed by much excitement: “Get God all up in you and be the best you can be.” She kep...

The girls left for Columbia, Tired looks on their faces. I turned out the lights, Put my head on the pillow. I heard breathing. The dazzler from the Maple Leaf Was hot on me In her thin-knit top. Her mouth was moving, “Stay in my music baby, “Stay in the music.” I could hardly breathe. I shifted with a rush of adrenalin— She slid off. All was still. No spirits to commune. No spirits.

I threw a tantrum at Starbucks today, the barista put foam on my latte. I clearly ordered it without, written right on the cup. I told her she was stupid. “Fire her,” I told the manager. By the end of my tantrum, she was sobbing in the backroom. The manager apologized and Personally made me a new drink To calm me down. I took it and accepted his apology. I must go back and beg her forgiveness, I haven’t had a shower in three days.

In a warm-lit St. Louis night, you drew me into a flame. Monday at BB's your loose-knit top stares me in the face: white-velvet, in a black-silk cage. I call for Monk and a tango. Catherine D. Snow comes up fast— You're hot, girlie! On an afternoon of morning, the dark is rising. Do you feel it? Here is your card, the Second Child, arranged in a sky of its own. He is the reason . Y ou’re tired. They’re here, it won’t be long.

After two hours of fear and fangs at the Mayan exhibit, I met a stream of white twenty’s with torn, bloody shirts moaning and groaning, staggering down the Delmar strip. Could a zombie apocalypse actually be happening? I reached out, “Go back to Pittsburgh!”   “We belong dead! Ha ha ha ha ha!”   A bald black guy in his 40s startled me. ‘Stacy’ wanted to sing like a troubadour. I left him and crossed the street to a two-piece combo playing on the sidewalk. He followed, close on my heels. I ventured, “What’s the plan?”   “What kind of music do you dig?”   “Jazz, blues, classical.”   “You look like Mozart, brother.”   “More like Einstein.”   “I can see that. There's better music on the corner. I know the band.” He leaned in. “What you want is a black girl.”   “You’re married, I can tell,” he added.   “No, actually I’m not.”   The look in his eyes was disbelief. “Wait’ll we get inside. You’re gonna love the music.”   The zombies were at...

Wassup your butt, Beta? Thing from Miletus fits guys in one place. Borrow your thing? baby got no bread. Baby Doll got no bread? kick it to the Rock. Who's playing? Santayana & the Four Realms. Put on your pads, color your lips, and agitate the gravel. Yer bazooms flatter the bums.