I got a hang-over
like a fat lady
on a bicycle seat.
I am as dry as
a virgin’s mound.
I remember starting
with whisky and
ending with wine,
but precious little else.
Awaking alone, as
per usual, however from
the nocturnal debris strewn
about is obvious that others
were present, just cannot
be accounted for right now.
Not really hungry, I stab at
eggs and signal for more coffee.
(Need something to act as a
sponge, and sop up the alcohol
eating away at my stomach
and vital organs.)
Clayton “me boy” enters, toting
library books, two extra shirts,
and a bottle of warm beer,
in a large paper bag.
Spotting me, he takes the empty
seat at my table for one.
After making some mandatory
one –sided conversation, I signal
for some coffee for him.
The least I can do I suppose.
He sips and recounts a story of
being at a place last week
where a girl o.d.’ed and
subsequently died.
He had just come from arising
at the shore where a paramedic
unit was loading a body into the
back after pronouncing him dead.
He retired to sleep that night ten-feet
away from Clayton “me boy” in
the same sand and mist, never to awaken.
2
He told these tales without registering
any emotion, so nonchalantly.
Business as usual.
Still suffering from after burn
from the previous night’s drowning
of all feeling and empathy, even
I felt a sudden pang of dread.
I continue eating, Clayton “me boy”
continues telling tales of woe.
Wrote a play last night, wanna’ read?
Sure, I tell him. Gibberish…complete.
When we step outside, we are in
the midst of a homeless encampment
just off Venice Blvd.
Clayton “me boy” knows most of them.
Dreams disintegrating before my eyes.
dashed hopes…semi-good intentions.
I have no change I can distribute. Nothing.
I feel like the fabled “one eyed man”
compared to these forgotten souls.
I lose Clayton “me boy” in the crowd,
and I saunter back to my building after
a pit-stop at the “Liquor Locker”.
I need some time to forget.
My rent is due, I don’t drive or work.
Transitory, empty, detached relationships
are all I can seem to maintain with women.
The next time someone from the real
world asks me why I drink so much…
I just may take the time to explain.
like a fat lady
on a bicycle seat.
I am as dry as
a virgin’s mound.
I remember starting
with whisky and
ending with wine,
but precious little else.
Awaking alone, as
per usual, however from
the nocturnal debris strewn
about is obvious that others
were present, just cannot
be accounted for right now.
Not really hungry, I stab at
eggs and signal for more coffee.
(Need something to act as a
sponge, and sop up the alcohol
eating away at my stomach
and vital organs.)
Clayton “me boy” enters, toting
library books, two extra shirts,
and a bottle of warm beer,
in a large paper bag.
Spotting me, he takes the empty
seat at my table for one.
After making some mandatory
one –sided conversation, I signal
for some coffee for him.
The least I can do I suppose.
He sips and recounts a story of
being at a place last week
where a girl o.d.’ed and
subsequently died.
He had just come from arising
at the shore where a paramedic
unit was loading a body into the
back after pronouncing him dead.
He retired to sleep that night ten-feet
away from Clayton “me boy” in
the same sand and mist, never to awaken.
2
He told these tales without registering
any emotion, so nonchalantly.
Business as usual.
Still suffering from after burn
from the previous night’s drowning
of all feeling and empathy, even
I felt a sudden pang of dread.
I continue eating, Clayton “me boy”
continues telling tales of woe.
Wrote a play last night, wanna’ read?
Sure, I tell him. Gibberish…complete.
When we step outside, we are in
the midst of a homeless encampment
just off Venice Blvd.
Clayton “me boy” knows most of them.
Dreams disintegrating before my eyes.
dashed hopes…semi-good intentions.
I have no change I can distribute. Nothing.
I feel like the fabled “one eyed man”
compared to these forgotten souls.
I lose Clayton “me boy” in the crowd,
and I saunter back to my building after
a pit-stop at the “Liquor Locker”.
I need some time to forget.
My rent is due, I don’t drive or work.
Transitory, empty, detached relationships
are all I can seem to maintain with women.
The next time someone from the real
world asks me why I drink so much…
I just may take the time to explain.
S. A. Gerber is a native and resident again of Los Angeles, CA. after having spent twenty-four years in a neighboring “city of sin” in the Silver State of Nevada.
His work has appeared in such diverse publications as Desert Voices Magazine… Subtopian Magazine…Talking Sidewalks… Mad Swirl, (where he is a “contributing Poet”)… Sediment Literary and Arts Journal… Poetica Magazine… Black Heart Magazine… The Blue Collar Review…Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles… The Linden Avenue Literary Journal…The Poet’s Haven…Stray Light Literary Magazine… Literature in Los Angeles Magazine… Opiate Magazine… Pacific Poetry… Neologism Poetry Journal…The Lyric…Free Venice Beachhead… The Shot Glass Journal…,Dove Tales-“Empathy in Art: Embracing the Other”, Writing for Peace, International Journal of the Arts, and Alien Buddha Press-Holiday Anthology-2020.
He is also a member of the Los Angeles Poet’s Society, (where his work can be found “Spotlighted” on their website).
His three (3) volumes of poetry, Under the Radar, Inventory, and Old School Rhyme can all be obtained on Barnes & Noble and Amazon.com, as well as Beyond Baroque Bookstore in Venice, Ca. The Amber Unicorn in Las Vegas, NV. The Book Monster in Santa Monica, Ca., The Book Jewel in Westchester, Ca. and City Lights Bookstore, San Francisco, Ca.
His three (3) volumes of poetry, Under the Radar, Inventory, and Old School Rhyme can all be obtained on Barnes & Noble and Amazon.com, as well as Beyond Baroque Bookstore in Venice, Ca. The Amber Unicorn in Las Vegas, NV. The Book Monster in Santa Monica, Ca., The Book Jewel in Westchester, Ca. and City Lights Bookstore, San Francisco, Ca.
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