Blackflash Dreams in Ochre Nights

Luke struts into Sully's on fifty-fourth street
East side. Upscale Manhattan.
All spruced up and ready for the kill.
Best gray suit. Red silk tie.
He snaps thin fingers to a Phil Collins
beat. Checks out the room.

Under the strobe, breasts bouncing
in and out of her black beaded dress,
Kim swivels her hips, stomps her feet,
figures Charles, Keith, and maybe even
William already argue over who will try
to take her home to strip off that hot
one hour dress and fuck her.
She figures the old creep in gray wants it, too.

Chardonnay in hand, Anthony Chee Emerson
sits in the corner, knees upraised
as his easel, painting the crowd.
He watches this wild woman lift proud
shoulders high, hands stroking
the air, black hair swaying, reminding
him of the buffalo he loves to paint.
He digs out a older canvas,
swishes black over the dried ochre.
Buffalo Bloodbath he plans to call it.

The music segues to a tortured guitar
and Kim kicks off her shoes, hikes up her skirt.
Anthony Chee's brush glides faster.
Did one pink rose peek out of that
blurred beaded gown?
Sweat pours down Luke's neck,
staining his collar dark. He swallows
hard, joins the men already circling, but,

in sweeps Meg wearing bo peep blue,
puffed sleeves, pleated bodice and
grabs Kim's hand. Red lips against pale,
blonde hair swirling with black,
the women weave and grind through
two crotch-to-crotch dances, then split,
Kim already biting Meg's damp pale neck.
Loaded guns drop, unused and limp.

Anthony Chee chuckles, dapples black
running legs across his canvas bottom,
imagines those earlier buffalo stampeding
through empty black nights to find their freedom, too.

Pris Campbell
©2004

Art: Fire Woman by Marques Vickers
copyrighted and used with permission

Also, see the art of Anthony Chee Emerson, the artist mentioned in the poem.