Strippers

Evening descends like long black hair
unbundled. And beneath the Empyrean stairs
three gold teeth,
lipstick, a thin, cherry red smile,

and impervious iron hips, Jesus,
drum drum tirelessly thumping
the front stage

Jesus may not have liked it much less loved it –

gals strutting airs as lusterless as martyrdom

Junk heap Magi. Goddess of redneck dives.
Goddess of Georgia hinterlands. Lord,
Death won’t catch me
before the come-hither gals
blazoning disco lights instead of clothes

such devil-may-care.

***

and every night at Club Tahiti
a block away from Downtown Lounge
a first burlesque startles like a vampire bat
smoldering on the window, a silhouette in wingspan
plastered over the exit sign.

No escape. No ascension.

***

– again tonight
Lawd-have-mercy steeped inside her emaciated bones
a breastless wonder will join me after dark
fishing from her straps and spangled hose
private pockets
covert interiors on a lark
a photo or two of the family and kids
the crappy kinfolks,
that old man with water on the brain
whose treatments she funds on the installment
plans
per 1st of the month per dry fuck per lap dance
pouts in silence hoping for me to proffer
nickel words
no words
moist words
lucky words
the benedictions that haven’t brought me
any better answers

editors note:

Confessions from patrons of the oldest profession. – mh clay

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