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Poem: Lounge

On the stage under hot lights
Sits the old grand piano
Older than her great grandparents
Who would’ve never made it in the door
On the club where she stands now
Leaning against old grand
Hair falling down to her shoulders
Body hugged in a cardinal red dress
Her lungs filling with whispy smoke
With her red lips making love
To the mesh of the microphone


Short Story: Detective, Hunter

He exhales smoke from his nose, meditating on the length of ash that extends past the filter of the cigarette in his stained hands. Finally returning from his mental sojourn he taps the ash into the ashtray before crushing out the cigarette. The throbbing beat that he can feel in his bones calls his attention back to the stage.

Some young waif is covering her chest while collecting the dollars on the stage the unwashed perverts had thrown at her.

On some nights he’d be one of those unwashed perverts. Tonight he was on duty.