Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, Blueline, and Halcyon Days. Four Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Review Journals, and numerous Kind of A Hurricane Press Publications have accepted her work. She has four Best of the Net nominations and her latest titles are The Musein Miniature, Love Poems for Michael, and At Work, all available on Amazon.com
Wearing designer clothes and sleek jewelry, she traipses along willy nilly throwing golden kismet wherever whimsy calls. Some think luck chooses their goodness or hard work. Perhaps they were blessed at birth? The wise know luck wears a visor tripping over herself favoring both mean and lazy. Luck has a toxic twin called Misfortune covered with gloom. Dressed in dusty rags, stupor-like he selects unsuspecting victims. Stomping helter skelter clutching the throats of both meek and mighty. Everybody who gets in his way will be pushed down, their muffled cries barely heard.
At Jewel Box Tavern lights are always dim so you can’t look closely. Wearing stiletto heels, she traipses along followed by billows of cheap perfume. Dressed in a second skin of electric blue velveteen covered with silver glitz. She looks for a mark, some clown who carries thick wads of cash and a stash of coke. Tapping the shoulder of the willing joker with her long lacquered fingernails. First she must meet him in the back alley to pay up with her pound of flesh. Showing its age, her face is coated by pastes, crèmes, thick rouge, blazing red lipstick. Her brown eyes encrusted with liners, mascara and shadow revealed a certain sadness, Secreted in the dark and dank women’s room, she snorts that magical white powder. Nothing matters now. There is no despair only this embrace of bliss.
Full of himself flaunting his black leather jacket covered with silver studs. Bling hangs from his bulging neck. Flashy zircons, cheap cologne, tattoos, piercings, purple hair. Puffed up, he struts across alleys. Headlight eyes scoping each corner searching prey. Pushing down anything in his way. Sniffing rear doors, sniffing out death. His hands move like claws through shadows with crooked nails buffed blue. Lugging a bag of tricks loaded with brass knuckles, chains, zip guns, switchblade knives. Opening his cavern mouth, smacking wide lips, he drains a cool cocktail of ruby red blood.