Meteorite scissors streak across a darkened sphere,
edgy, taking away rather than giving.
Forlorn hair strands, unwanted,
scatter in paisley patterns on a checkered floor
to mix with words already dropped
that rest next to a waiting urn
soon bombarded by shrieking tobacco missiles
incoming from the man who cuts.
Above all, there is talk.
Fresh utterings take flight and fill the air,
dewy stuff, words of the day,
squishy soft and insignificant,
future floor droppings
until those meteorite scissors cut closer, inward
to cut, snip, set free the mind of the oppressed
and heretofore dull talk, deepens.
The barber, soothsayer, wise one, listens
to a rugged barber chair confession
as secrets are told
amidst falling hair follicle snows.
Advice is murmured
amongst tobacco ca-chinks
just as an old door squeaks
and a darkened thought cloud wanders in,
overgrown with portent above a man.
He sits on a vinyl chair that hisses,
chastises in protest.
He hangs bedraggled head low
to stare at checkerboard floor squares
while awaiting silver metallic meteor showers
replete with good advice
along with an excellent cut.
Copyright 2009 JO Janoski