she moves naked onto the stage,
slow, seductive, a somnolent cat.
the gray shades of this temple reveal
only one color: her red Rita Hayworth hair.

the drum-noise of Night Train, tempestuous tempo,
high decibel, conquers the room, and claims the
back rooms where the other dancers wait;
sniff, shoot up, impale themselves...
to escape their sordid reality.

insistent speakers vibrate, the naked girl writhes,
her fingers tangled in her hair.
hips gyrate, to the left, to the right, hypnotic,
demanding, kindling Desire's fire.
when her legs spread, the scent of wildflowers
whispers into the smoke and the whiskey melodies.

in the shadowed pit, hungry eyes memorize her
beauty, begging embrace, dreaming unholy dreams.
somewhere, another world spins, civilizations rise
and dominate, fall and repeat...
but not here.

the drums, the shadows, the dancer, the watchers,
they cry for their own salvation.

the naked girl dances.

hungry eyes devour her nakedness.

wildflowers perish in smoke.