He readjusts his cowboy hat and says to me:
Poetry won't change the world
Hell man I'm extraneous info
To the wheelers and dealers
Relying on gold plated water taps
Pouring into gullible jellybaby brains
Hollering with their three good brain cells
Directed from their mouths into
their paid-for privilege of
mobile minute minutiae
Only serving to proclaim to the world
how ultimately USELESS they are.
As he slurs insistence
into his glass, between swearing
'beats the shit out of our local brand'
I (okay, equally as drunk) disagree,
Laying out the argument:
Force of will
Force of thought
The unspoken laid down
For all who want who crave to
Reach into the heart and mind
To not feel alone.
Flipping back his well earned Texas horsetail
He grins and says:
Well I certainly don't right now, I can tell you
Hell this punk chick on my lap I know for sure
Will take me away, if only for tonight
That's all one can hope for sometimes
That's why I'm here, if you feel it too
That's why...take it for what it is to you:
A hand on the shoulder
Tongue on a body part
An unexpected piece of mail
The fragment of a distant soul scrawled upon a postcard;
the brain hotel elevator attendant
knowing destination but who all the same
smiles and requests your floor.
Before I left
I even paid for the last round
But only on the condition
that cowboy keeps writing
and the punk girl starts a band.
They in turn made me promise
I would at least start a revolution
Before the hangover strikes
Or lunchtime tomorrow
Whichever comes first.
Is a poet and writer based in San Francisco; I have read my work at numerous literary venues, including City Lights Books and the annual San Francisco Litquake Festival.
I have also had a number of chapbooks published since 2005, primarily by Kendra Steiner Editions out of San Antonio, TX., and am the curator of the recent anthology MY WEEK BEATS YOUR YEAR: ENCOUNTERS WITH LOU REED, published by Hat & Beard Press of Los Angeles.
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