Midnight at the 2300 Club

Midnight at the 2300 Club

The pole dancers inside don’t care about the lonely highway in the night.

They feel the eyes on their soft, fleshy gladiatorial bodies.

Is this West Texas or Rome? I see centurions, slaves, senators, coroners, cowboys,

and all the fallen angels too numerous to name. That look walking by said you didn’t

understand what I said. No matter. At 3 a.m., my eyes aglow, standing in the parking lot

I see an image in the clouds embracing a blood-red Moon ­

­– creamy, soft, beckoning – veiling inestimable molecules up there and inside my head.

I call this moment passion.

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