By Frank G. Johnson Jr.
I trace your silhouette through the dying night
Make Amends through folk songs of my Soul’s Second sight
The way you animate crowds of desert rock to move is godly
But you pull the Pulse right out of my body
When you Strip: For Me.
Spun in tri-colored cotton webbing,
swaddled from bulb pricked fingertip flesh,
you count that money,
and people watch. Me too,
You were raunch, burlesque fishnets
easily seen through to your poisoned fantasies
of burlap head covering, fetishized rope play
– asphyxiated liberty for your false proof of my false heinous.
And I believed you,
despite how you bore unwashed calamity in my lap.
you were honest.
I could never scrub the purity back from indelible seeping
I would trek over coal fueled, smoke stack railroad
all the live long day for ragtime, whisky talk, and run ruined stockings.
You’d dance on me ‘til I was embalmed with your rhythm,
and I would tell of your naked.
But none hear grave tales from dying men.
Lofty visions of snapping shots with tripod at bay,
you go-go behind glass made stage.
Frenzied till your round’s empty,
I always see you grasping
Yet your pleasures and fashions, you fancy
‘tried to sing a song I wrote,
but encroached upon our affairs
with lyrics constituted by relations
of our forebears.
You deny that your dance is made to conjure
spirits from the body
I’da built a horror studio of mirrors
for Red Records of your hobby,
But you fun house well,
tell showgoers and yourself I’m cursed
and addicted. Grind your truth
into their beauty, and their veil
forever will be lifted. It’d be splendid
if only you could see,
your closet got my skeletons in them
I never needed you to Strip: For Me…
When the talks shift to “What about Chicago?”,
do you think the 50 plus bodies become less death-filled?
Shiny, gold plated propaganda calf builds a shrine
to itself, reversing alchemy. From cold,
Is your music
When the talks shift,
to “Bad Hombres”,
Do you think the 500 plus shot or injured
scale and hi-wire tip-toe fencing, become more Nobody
to be danced upon on your hill to be made anew?
Baptized once more with your calamity, contorted
to be tetris-ed into your bone closet mosaic
Can’t you feel yourself still dancing?
I, estranged patron, my dancing shoes locked away
with Pad Docked deep. With no partners left,
to become blind or invisible to yourself,
how far will you reach?
An existence you opted for, where
even with winds you sway.
You waywardly stray, engendered trouble
counter to what you centuries say.
All you project to the world about me is
all you continue to reveal yourself to be
Lots of die cast on a playground stained historically
A chest of secrets, a justice-less justifier,
empty and starved,
identity relegated to
Strip: For Me