There’s this strip club

where the dancers

are black and the

best of them have

doll faces and

mommy bodies

with the kind of

curves that the

African gods

only gave to

African girls

whose ancestors

sometimes chose

their kings and

queens on their

dancing and not

killing ability

and that’s real

not from a movie

anyway, whenever

I spy an exceptional

cutie there, and chat

her up for private

dances downstairs

the kind of the white

ice princesses

don’t often give

the club dj

derails my vibe

by calling that

cutie I was

just chatting up

to the main

stage instead

but I’m not

surprised by

such tactics

anymore I know

damn well that

no one in this

world really

wants me or

you for that

matter to have

what’s good

not even my

mama would

want me to have

that first class doll-

faced mommy-

body cutie no

matter how she

might make my

perennially-

depressed

and sometimes

suicidal head swim

with endorphins all

dancing like African

princesses in a land

with no need of

strip clubs Hell not

even our friends

really want

us to have what’s

good unless it

would also benefit

them of course and

that’s why no so-

called friends who

said they loved me

like a brother ever

tried to set me up

with an ex GF

worth having or

a lovely sister even

when the world

weighed down on

me like a wicked

stepmother and a

lovely female would

have made the

demons in my

death-wishing head

jump for joy like

dolphins in a coked-

up  ocean….

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie (A Story of Passion and Compassion)

 

 

 

 

 

 

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