Behold the Saint

After surveying several

“gentlemens’ clubs”

and not seeing anyone

who got my endorphins

jumping like happy

dolphins, a baby-faced

black girl with Betty Boop

lashes, long blonde locks,

and a curvy body wrapped

in sheer white embossed

with little hearts, sat beside

me and asked my name.

I told her the truth, that it

didn’t matter, since I was

neither rich nor famous.

And I added that she looked

good in white and would

look good on white too. A

line I’ve used before but

made up myself. She was

just my type, which is to

say I wasn’t her’s. Another

black beauty pulled up,

who I knew to be hip,

so I shared with her

an article about one

of Phizer”s ex chief

scientists and VPs

proclaiming that

our governments

and big boy “vaxxers”

are lying to us in order

quite possibly cull

Us. Now I”m

no doctor, but when they

supress the voices

of people like this,

that tells me something.

Anyway, the hip one

started to read the

article aloud and

knodded along,

then the other one,

Ms. SUPERSWEET,

asked me if I believe

all “that stuff.” And I could

tell by the way she said

it that she didn’t. It hit me

then that I was jeopardizing

my dances with her. Well,

I told her that I have no way

Of knowing for sure

but that the big boys

pushing the injections

are on record as promoting

population control, and that

it’s wise to consider dissenting

voices. I may have also

mentioned the Georgia

Guidestones…and that

was pretty much that,

since she was a nurse

as it turned out. Well, I

knew that with each word I

was pushing her farther away

but said those words anyway.

I’d rather drive home

unsatisfied than have

the consequences of

not speaking

on my conscience.

So maybe that supervising

nurse who called me St.

Francis all those years ago

when I was an STNA wasn’t

so wrong. after all.

—fb, author of Mail Order Annie, a Story of Passion and Compassion

Half a Beer Here, One or Three Dances There

Half a beer here 

A dance or two

There.

I remember when

The strip clubs

Were packed

With femininitie’s

Finest but that

Was long ago

Now even the

Average charge

Too much for

Some bump n

Love and that’s

If you can find

A place where

You can touch

What you can’t

Taste. That’s why

I find my way to

The black clubs.

While the ice

Princesses

Put you off

More or less,

The Nubian

Princess will

Take my chalk

White hands

And press them

To their round

Brown buns and

Tell me to squeeze

And smack hard

Besides, they

Don’t look like

The girls who

Broke my heart

Ten thousand

Times, but

After all, it’s

About that

cracka Cash

Even though

Mine don’t

Come with

Much cheese

So I know not

To linger too

Long there

Either….half

A beer here

One of three

Dances there

Then it’s try

And make it

To the car so

I can head on

Home to feed

The rescue cats.

And that’s pretty

Much that.

— F.B.