Tag Archives: dancing

Gratitude: Part 26

Today I am grateful for:

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Gratitude: Part 19

Yesterday I was grateful for:

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Six Billion Stories: A Small Sliver – NaPoWriMo #15

There are six billion individual stories in this world and I saw but a sliver this Sunday morning walking off a sole beer insobriety downtown Las Vegas.

I saw Santa Claus, lean in the springtime months, smoking a cigarette on the corner sidewalk.

So many drunk girls swaying to a country band on Fremont, short skirts and indiscretion, clustered in cloisters throughout the congregation.

There was a walking Asian pharmacy and a bottle of water, glasses, trekking back to his hotel room where his wife had some malady he had ventured out to cure.

I saw a man that walked like a meat market lumbering through a crowd that gave him a wide berth: he had a neck like two ham hocks half-eaten, a gait like a porterhouse – wholesome and bloody, each footstep a whole roost of chickens clucking cacophony.

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My earliest memory is either getting hot water spilled on me off the stove or a runover cat in the middle of the road on the way to daycare;
I’m not sure which came first, but the effect is the same no less,
I knew pain and death before I realized what breath was.

Education makes us, and so the days I spent face buried in ancient texts twisted my perspective,
Married to the genuflecting of tradition and extremist socialization strata;
I’ve become a master of my passions,
It’s easy to sit on my own hands and not react to the boiling in the blood that makes me seek affection,
But with all chains come the same perplexion,
There’s a mutiny roiling somewhere in that shattered soul.

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Beauty Bar

While Pray for Japan plays Pauline, who is frying, undoes her lumberjack shirt, revealing her red bra as she revels, the only girl dancing.

Too many dicks on the dancefloor during a love-song,
The girls sitting it out on stools,
Or are off in a corner getting memorialized by a photographer with all the trimmings, a flash on his camera, two umbrella’d cans rebounding the light about.

At the bar, another photographer places his triachnid tripod on the top and photographs Melissa, the bartender, as she takes his order;
A collector, unabashed until he sees me staring:
His face turns red and he doesn’t make eye contact again, embarrassed at being made, unaware I’ve been doing in a different medium the same.

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