Half a Beer Here, One or Three Dances There

Half a beer here 

A dance or two

There.

I remember when

The strip clubs

Were packed

With femininitie’s

Finest but that

Was long ago

Now even the

Average charge

Too much for

Some bump n

Love and that’s

If you can find

A place where

You can touch

What you can’t

Taste. That’s why

I find my way to

The black clubs.

While the ice

Princesses

Put you off

More or less,

The Nubian

Princess will

Take my chalk

White hands

And press them

To their round

Brown buns and

Tell me to squeeze

And smack hard

Besides, they

Don’t look like

The girls who

Broke my heart

Ten thousand

Times, but

After all, it’s

About that

cracka Cash

Even though

Mine don’t

Come with

Much cheese

So I know not

To linger too

Long there

Either….half

A beer here

One of three

Dances there

Then it’s try

And make it

To the car so

I can head on

Home to feed

The rescue cats.

And that’s pretty

Much that.

— F.B.

 

No One Wants You To Have What’s Good

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)

 

 

 

 

 

 

When You Looked Most Lovely (for B.C.)

Days into nights

I saw you

on that stage,

wearing false paint

on your already-

glowing face

and silly glittering

heels strapped to

your tiny

doll’s feet.

You swayed and

rocked in some

skimpy costume

and your hair was

always coiffured

immaculately.

But then one day

I saw you just arrive

in the parking lot

to work,

wearing faded

jogging pants

and a dollar-store

sweat shirt,

and no make-up

at all, with your

hair pillow-fresh

and falling free–

that’s when

you looked

most lovely

to me.

 

— fyodor bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE