Monday, October 29, 2007

Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

She curtsies and beckons
to the highway rollers,
the evening strollers,
the "I just left my wife
this morning"ers.

With her eyes wide open,
they believe....
do they ever believe,
her eyes, burning
reflecting their desire...

Everything around her
drowning in the want
to bathe in her love.

A tear like a diamond--
rough and in perfect season and tune;
falling like a stone from above.

She told them a dime
a beer
a skate
a stroll
or stone-skip throw
is all it will take
to win a true heart.

Told them with piercing eyes
to step right up if they think
they have what it takes,
a quarter for the jukebox...
your dime,
my time--
and to believe that
24 hours is enough...

For anything.

Because she told them so....

Told them how to win a night
at the Paradise South.

Told them almost everything
keeping dreams for herself,
a shadow walking with her
the only friend who knows.

Forever is just a dream,
enchantment of the night--
her heart's true name
scribbled on a timeless picture
in her gilded locket for eyes only.

She bows with royal flourish,
takes the floor, fading into smoke;
lights high above beaming down
like a sun never shone on earth.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Nickel Drafts, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

Backs to the band
we drifted down--
drafted, up--
(clouds have nothing on us)

Penned a paperback book
on Budwieser napkins
aces high,
a house of cards
between us.

"Shhhhhh.... "

"No talking"


Words penciled
between strangers
leg to leg
shoulder to shoulder
tall tales, short stories
spun right there
at the bar.

I only heard
your voice
in a smile,
as we ran
across the street
let them fly

White butterflies
wooshed by traffic,
with bottle ring

This word
and that word

the story out of order

And that's the way it's supposed to be...

Friday, October 26, 2007

The Show, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

"Like water fits a mermaid"

A taffeta gown
in phospherescent teal
dancing on it's own
and beaded
and fated
by the seamless seamtress
of the sea.

From the watchtower
she's dripping in
frothy hemlines
moving victorian lace
sea foam splash
smile sigh
eight miles high
and deep.

The sun pulls the curtains
endless encore
the lights go on and off
and she's swathed in tie-dyed
and butterfly wings
but for her soul
a crystaline buoy
tethered to the shore--

The show must go on...

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Red Glow of Pardise South, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

Neon lights burning:
Red hot and electric
they never close down
fall down, burn out
they never do lie
except to the city;
red glare, she cries.

The neon lights click
on and on, clinking
even with the dark
thinking, tinking
on abandoned streets
of the long after hour
craze and shuffle home

Red lights glaring like
moonlight and bloodstone
in the see-through rays
of the old rising sun,
burning her face bronze
her lunch-time squint;

(Don't frown--
you'll get wrinkles)

The neon lights buzz
on through the night.

The neon lights lie
to the city so wide
as the jukebox dies
it lies in plain sight.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

An Every-Night Cinderella, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

I'm not alone...

As long as the wind
will talk to me,
I hear your voice

I'm listening...

The wind always
has a story to tell....

She whispers
in the night,
to the moon,
frolicks in the sun

But she listens,
as she gales,
tumbling litter
winter leaves
baby butterflies

I hear the sounds
of her bright voice
echo; alive

Sometimes I hear her

In the night,
there are secrets
and she knows
all of them.

But if one knows
to listen well
to her breathy voice
and feel her caress
and her soft kisses
on their face
will remain hidden

will stop her
from becoming one,
from becoming a kite
of stardust and light;
blue and purple
and red and white
flying from the palm
of her invisible hand

And then she'll do
what the wind
always does,
she'll unravel
the kite string
one loop
one inch
one beer
one line
at a time
and set it free
a new constellation

One more brand new
in her midnight sky.

Monday, October 22, 2007

Atomic Moon, Singleton 2007

Keys on the floorboard,
fingers digging past
lost cigarette butts,
McDonald's reciepts,
dashboard buttons fallen
in the dark
to find them,
Two keys to the car,
one to the house,
one to the Storage Shed where
memories are buried for ninety-nine
dollars a month,
one to the post office box
three cities ago,
just to crank the damned engine
in the cold and
barrel out,
blonde hippie chic
under the
Steven Kingish,
laughing moon....

And drive here.
Where pink ladies paid $7.95 an hour
drape her in Este Lauder perfumes
and dripping vintage beads,
bathe her in bargain basement

She slides through the
swinging doors,
keys clanging
on the bars of
the old pocketbook
bouncing off her hip,
into the blackened parking lot....


Friday, October 19, 2007

Open, Singleton 2007

Three pairs of blues
inside out and wadded
crumpled at the bedfloor
Eight left shoes
different heights
for different faces
heaped in the corner
and I'm ready to go...
dressed in tried and trues
and that damned
concrete block
I'm growing quite
accustomed to.

The barstool
six from the right
on wooden knees
a black plethera
that whispers
"be mine...
when you're
when you've had
your fill
of them.....

And I'm off....
Fridays are for dancin'.....

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Mocha Morning, Singleton 2007

Last call forgot us
they couldn't find
our hands raised
for roll call
or find our shadows
on the floor
I was in the ladie's room
talking to my other smile
and you were bangin'
on the cigarette machine
playing pachinko with
our last dimes for
a pack of anything
pall malls
bubblegum rings
or fortunes....
anything that would
happily land at your feet

And so we missed it,
another round
downtown at the cornerbar
and in the wee hours,
the free hours
we took the party home
to dance in the kitchen
and drink Michelobs left
lying on their sides in the
vegetable bin,
we did that the night before....
and there was only bologna there
and some cheese

So I brewed coffee and
when you went to fetch the cream
you find the henna
in the karmic red tubes
chilled and ready

We pretended it came in every color
the color of my hair on top
and painted mocha colored cobwebs
up and down our calves
and laughed....

I read the directions this
sipping cold black coffee....
and crossing my legs,

It says in perfect foreign script.....
"does not wash off with soap and water"

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

The Perfect Corner, Eric Bachman 2007

The perfect corner bar,
a perfect place to sit back
to kick our feet up
and loose the shoes,
listening to voodoo sing
it's charms and invocations
from an electric guitar amp.

The perfect circle--
hands held with strangers
as the bright lights dim,
electric freedom singing
while everyone watches
the stage for her next trick
her next dance, next song.

Perfect circle, perfect corner
perfect burnished wood
perfect cigarrette burns
perfect drinks, perfect laughs
everything was like that;
real and a little impossible,
only a dream--in your face.

Last call is light years
into the future's haze.

Open the door and look out
at the new-born universe.

In the windows by the corner
an open sign glows--perfect.

Non-stop neon lights burn.
and the sunrise only means
it's a new morning.

Will work for beer, Singleton 2007

He spins stories on the sidewalk
and the five o'clockers gather round
hushed from their rush and tickertapes
by his words,

they linger and loiter and loot
his cache
parading in
and pantyhouse
and breaktimes
to their lives
in make believe
and verytales

and she draws a circle in pastels
around his workaholic words
and the shady people grazing him
but noone notices
the colors
she's painting

just the barefeet
dancing through
the stories
leaving chalky footprints
on the sidewalk
and the way
she collects
his dimes

Little Black Book, Eric Bachman 2007

Pages blur
faces turn
some time
no money.

on a dime.

Air crackles with life-lightning
smokey air conditioned breeze,
out of the dark we are all born.

and pages
with stars:
one or two
three, four
and five.

Few could hold your candle,
none could match your style--
ten, eleven, twenty-four-seven.

A page in
the book
torn out
flying on
cool breeze.

Butterflys drink from the flowers,
sometimes, shot glasses, bottles;
always to their light heart's content.

One more page torn from the book
forever are the stars there yours
shining like rain in a city street lamp

casting shadows
on this
little black book
of mine.

Empty Bar, Singleton 2007

spraypainted black
by fingernails
golden hair
spider veined by the sun
the black egg

Jukebox humming
clanging banging
ghosts of vinyls
but nothings
digital sounds
masters recreated
it's not the same

And I spin on the black
leather seat
in a circle
eyes closed
arms out
waiting to
pin the tale on the donkey
or the next drunken
fool who makes
an ass of

and for you...
jeweled shot warming,
I wait for you...