it is a cold january night.
I push into the bar. "Beach Night".
Ed Maloney has hauled in
3 hundred pounds of sand...
2 drunks kneel in it
sculping crooked sandcastles
that sag the moment their born.
bob's girlfriend howls along with
Werewolves of London,
her voice cracking, the kind of sound
that makes the patrons
check for exit signs.
bob sprays tequila from his mouth
across a lit match---
napkins bloom into tiny raging suns.
Crazy George swings
from the wagon wheel light.
Ed Maloney shouts, "George, WHAT THE F**K,"
leaps, grabs the other side---
the whole thing comes down
in a crash of wood, sand, bodies,
the bar exploding into smoke, laughter,
and the kind of joy
that never survives the morning.
it's the one bar he couldn't get thrown out of.
he owned it.
Ed had stolen thousands of dollars
from the company
(rumor said CIA).
the company
paid him 100 thousand dollars
just to explain how.
"how did you do it?" I asked.
he looked past me into a dark corner
like something was whispering back.
"Ghosting the Darkling," he said.
some men burn through their days
faster than time can count them
like the quick flare
of a match struck in a dark room
and Ed Maloney was the flash of gold on a river
before the current swallows it.
*** *** ***
ed maloney, a genius, is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are
Absolutely True...
(that's my story,
anyway...)