What can I say, What can I say?
I’m fluid ******, Alackaday!
Again and again,
Wine is fine, I’m tryin’ and tryin’,
Not to cry and whine,
Stank, dank wine is fine, of course,
But makes me long for stronger force,
Stronger drink or… I must think,
About your lips… or your soft hips,
So far away… Alackaday.

In a dream,
I asked God… Have I had enough?
He laughed,
So I aint got no time to sleep,
Just time to think, drink and puke.

I got tons and tons of spit,
And vinegar dribbles of sour,
Lemon lime frothy gobs,
Ripe with a distilled scent,
But leaden with this dull ache taste,
That I try to get rid of but can’t…
No matter how much I spit,
I am cursed…
To hate myself and to hate others.

Remember the restaurant we ate at,
Where the hostess had really nice ****,
And ghoulie, grey eyes gasping in pools of mascara and puddles,
Almost a clown of femininity,
Or with features as such,
Sharp nose, with freckles,
And pale skin that led you to believe her whole body was wonderful,
Making imaginations sweat over onion soup.

My boy has my glad confusion,
He’s got chicken legs,
No ****, Big gut,
Just like me… Looks like me,
Poor Dean…

My girl kneels to talk to the bugs,
Crawling up the screen door,
Sweet, serious brown eyes,
She observes,
Just like me… Sees like me,
Poor Sheri…

Yellow, Green Wisconsin,
Sunday afternoon,
County fair... bugs buzz,
Typical of July,
Grassy paths move between sweet breads and carnival cons,
Squeaky clicks bang, People laugh on rides,
And I smile, reflecting the soft, shy smiles,
Of my son, wondering on his first fair carousel ride,
Oriental music breathing out deep fried air,
Lemonade and popcorn,
Jolly horses, Noble roosters, Severe dragons,
Dance up and down around my boy.