Courtney Burgin

I never thought about the morality of strippers in my town.
I was a woman child, seventeen
Running away from the baby,
Running away from sadistic sailors,
Running away from welfare workers –

No good
No good
No good

No job, no school, no money, no chance,
I dreamed and I ran.
I ran and I dreamed.
I hitchhiked to Hollywood.

Why not?

I had sweaters.
I knew about Lana Turner.
(In 7th grade, twelve years old, blond hair – bleached by accident
It was Maria’s idea, but my mistake:
She wanted my chest.
I wanted her hair.
She bought falsies.
I bought black hair dye.
She looked pointy –
Had pouty lips and curly black hair.
I looked like Dracula’s adolescent concubine,
Skin too white for black hair,
Hair too straight.
We tried red lipstick.
Dracula would have loved me,
Built but ugly.
I decided I’d rather be blond
Like Marilyn Monroe.
I already had her body
36 – 24 – 36.)
At seventeen, I still had blond hair and her body,
Why not Hollywood?

So there I was
No job
No school
No money

They weren’t looking for Lana
At that drugstore anymore.
The want-ad read “wanted –
Dancers and models –
No experience necessary”
I had a choice
How to earn a living –
Lying down
Or standing up.
I made my choice,
Put my bathing suit on under my sweater
(they might want to see my figure
I wanted to be prepared.)

“Take your clothes off,” he said
And stared.
“Ha, Ha,” he said.
“Ha, Ha, Ha,
Take that off too.”

I did.

He sent me to
San Francisco’s
Mission District
Neighborhood
Burlesque house.
(The carnival came later.)

I got drunk the first time
On Pink Ladies and Grasshoppers.
(I was a sweet kid.)
I walked around the stage
Took it off, down to panties and pasties.

Cops were backstage every show.
They were young and horny.
I was young and scared of jail –
They liked my show, they said.
Afterwards, we all went out
And got drunker.
Still drunk, much later,
No school, no chance,
Why not a carnival?
I was still standing up.

The barker is an asshole.
“Balley, Balley, Balley,”
He screams. Every twenty minutes,
He screams.

Six of us in a one room trailer
Behind the tent, no toilet,
Twelve hours a day.
Put it on, take it off,
An ugly dwarf plays records.
For this they pay us
$150.00 a week.

People bring their kids in the tent.
The cops don’t like us.
The food is rotten.
And the goddam barker screams,
“Balley, Balley, Balley!”

What you saw, Mr. Critic,
Was a stag show.
That happens after carnivals,
At respectable, traditional
Bachelors’ parties,
At the Elks, the Eagles, the Moose –
Old strippers do that.
Tired, slow moving strippers.

No job
No school
No money
No chance
Nothing
To do but
Lay down.

Always put off till tomorrow
what you should do today
ironing bored, cut the cord
ignored the childish fray
put everything off till tomorrow
curl up in the cot instead
explore the case for wearing white lace
and check that your mother’s in bed.

© 2013

we will dance over
your dead bodies,
an ant told me.
I’m already dead
dance, dance, dance
all over me.