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.

[al25]

Yur writing style is so different and yet so great. I really enjoy reading your poetry. Great job.

[Jibey]

Vivid memories... a searchlight into a somehow sleazy world

[Pax Analog]

I could smell the natural bar -- before the Twilight Zone floor melted! ;-)

What stands out w/the more naturalistic set-up is how poetic art can both create the absorbing recognizable scene and blow it to smithereens w/dreamlike fluidity.

JukeBox jouissance!

[Barb]

exhale, smoke swirls, I feel the beat. Excellently written
its been so long since I have had a chance to read you and it is always the best moment!!!!! GREAT JOB!!!! HUGS AND ALL MY LOVE, MISS YOU BUNCHES!!!!!

[Ed Hart]

f*****g rib business...it was a mistake...i mean, what was the hurry; mitosis was fine...then the god not only got into change, but variety...and we were guaranteed a weaker sex, and then she showed up all colorful with a jukebox and apple cider and a liquid fire that tears us apart...and not only did she get kicked out of the garden, but i'm f*****g out here too

[Crinkle°]

To be honest I'm not fan of long poem, but hey, it makes my english work... and I appreciate a lot the use of just the precise words to say things. I like very much the atmosphere.

This paints a wild and sexual bar scene and displays nice visual images. A collage with tense introductory moments and suspense, building and building itself to climax, a complete rainbow of colors on the mind. Well put and stated. Thanks

[Nancy S.]

And this write carries back to the first time I read you, Selene, in CrowWoman & MudGirl. Here again is the voice, the pulse, the vivid recreation of time spun from your delicate and ever so detailed mind. You have an instinct when it comes to detailing, what to leave in, what to omit, making it perfect in clarity and curiosity. This style just pulls me into the poetic, to rub shoulders with the likes of human creations living on your pages, breathing... Yes, if I had to describe in one word why your first book CrowWoman & MudGirl grab such a hold over me, it would be BREATHING. Surreal Stalks has returned me to that incredible mix of your talent and air~ two things people shouldn't try to live without~

[Maurice]

The line "a calf with a recessive jean" mystified me. An excellent write.