A bar girl with dark expressive eyes slipped onto the stool next to mine. At least she wasn’t the sort of person who would refer to poetry as “verse.” “I am here to entertain you,” she said, then quickly added, “but only during my shift.” I shrugged and turned back to finishing my beer and watching the game on the TV over the bar. She tried to engage me by telling a riddle: “Why are noses broken on Egyptian statues?” I didn’t respond in case she was wearing a wire. Prison workshops and rural cemeteries are filled with the incautious.
We're the Ezine dedicated to all things barroom. We are slightly off what others consider the norm and always the last to close the bar. If you prefer the local dive bar to the glitz of some overpriced club then you're our kind of people. So welcome grab a drink and enjoy.
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The Evolution of Green By Rita S. Spalding
the sun has scorched your edges from inside in that fire you are the word beautiful once green new life yellows reds and soon browns you wav...

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Diamond hair Bathe in bourbon and butter You are my Sunday prayer You are everything You are all You are life Rita S. Spalding has had poem...
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near the on-ramp of I-10 in Crowley, Louisiana we unload our band equipment into the back of Gozzlebeck’s not the real name of the bar but a...
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lemonade hair dead and deflated thin like a bleached ghost; mascara rings fat as a star pitcher’s eyeblack; she cracked her broken finger ba...
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