blinking silhouette
splashed with hot lights seduces the runway
letting her nakedness
intoxicate the sick
her slender arched feet
give me the blues
inside this strip club
along sunset boulevard
where Van Gogh’s ghost
is hunched over my trembling back
and we lonely married men
yearn for young ripe flesh
while tupac’s california dreamin’
booms above our heads
and the image of Van Gogh’s print hanging on my daughter’s wall
blinks in front of my eyes
as the girl dances like the wild cypresses
swaying above the yellow wheat fields
swirls of blue and white colliding
on the end of Van Gogh’s brush
before she climbs the gold pole
i smell the meat of her white thighs as they go snug, like a vice, around the coolness of the pole
i reach in my pocket for mo-green
to keep feeding her crisp dollars because she is the free cypress
she is the knife grazing my neck
she is the what if . . .