She struts the stage, coyly, of the Cold Chrome Club, somehow balanced on high six inch heels. Lithely wrapping her limbs ‘round a stainless steel pole, titillating whoever she feels. It’s a busy

I’m done with Bukowski. Done with the stale cigar smoke and bar napkin sonnets. Done with the man ~ with the rueful pronouncements  poured out like yesterdays brew. Done.  And why not? My exes have all

Shallow, the blow of a harbor breeze     morn arrives with the autumn air Shallow, the breath of a tortured soul sunlight dies on a mortal fair Simple, the heart of a lowly child pennies poured will mark his plaque Simple, the

I want to be impaled on a pink flamingo laid out on John Waters lawn. I want to see cat eye glasses mist up while Kix plays the Colts marching song. I want to hear tributes in Roosevelt

  Tomorrow was yesterday – the day imagination took flight; the day my sneakers touched the dust of that distant world. A sphere in the night, chalky white, I followed its rise and fall; the till of my telescope set upon the Tranquil Sea. With every

(The days of the nickel dates are long gone but the memories do endure for a pretty young girl of Italian descent and her stays on this storied shore.) Stepping first into the

I can almost hear her voice beckoning to, “Come up and see me sometime” Sequins shine, hugging curves which went out of fashion, back when coffee still cost a dime. Her profile reads like a back room novel; her

Strange. It seems the rims don’t seal quite as well as she remembers. And the colors; the greens and yellows have given way to cold casts of cobalt and white. Strange. To be a wife

I don’t know anymore what’s cool or keen or what you mean when you say “whatever” Someway, one day when I wasn’t looking someone changed the rules of the game. People twice my age I always called Sir or