I sat next to a **** fox at the
bar
It was a stumble really--I didn't
see her and barely made it onto the
stool
But she scooted to the left and brushed
my right arm
I glanced and said,
"Hi."
She smiled and asked how I was doing.
I responded with,
"What are you drinking?"
She giggled and said she was sipping on
a *** and coke

I got the bartender's attention and told him,
"*** and coke"

He brought it back and sat it between
the two of us--
     I threw him six bucks.

She drained her drink and reached for the
*** and coke.
--I slipped in quicker and grabbed the glass;
gulped it

The fox looked confused

I smirked,
     stood up,
          and walked out.

“What is the devil doing over there?”
the little girl asked.
”That’s not the devil, darling.”  And the father strapped her in her carseat.

“But he’s smoking, while drinking water from a small cup.  He’s wearing sunglasses; his shirt is unbuttoned—he must be burning up.”

I checked the mail and gave the neighbor a wave as they drove off.

“His beard is so long it touched his ******—and sooo red.  Long hair and unshaven—his shirt is unbuttoned—you can see his ‘V’ and treasure trail.  Wonder what he has in his glass.”
Said the wife.

I checked the car for loose change and gave her a brief wave and wry grin as she closed the garage door.

“Do you ever see him leave the house?  Nothing but a druggie—a drunk—should get that police officer down the road to check him out.””
Said the father.

I checked on the baby—threw away the diaper, made a bottle, and tucked her away.


“How is the devil doing?” asked the little girl.
”That’s not the devil, darling,” said the mother.

I had a cigarette and a long pull out of the bottle before entering the church.

“He has such beautiful curls; clean-cut, smells okay—why are his eyes barely slit?  Talks well; not a lot, but great voice—why though?
They asked.

I went outside to do the same as they filled their coffers.

All pure white clothing, perfect hair, and a mint in my mouth.

“Mommy, is that Jesus?” the little boy asked.
“No, that’s not Jesus,” she responded.

But…

He wondered
if it was the
alcohol in his system
or the symptom of
an alcoholic

as he lied there
and relit his
cigarette
after it was knocked out of his hand
and burnt a hole in his chest

--I think he drank
so much
he drowned his
brain.


She left
She left
she left

She asked,
Well,
what makes you feel alive?

and I responded,
simply:
the things that bring me closer
to death,
of course.

*****
something pernicious
that has lasted

when we talk
when we listen
when we laugh
    and cry
when we forget it all
     and repeat

when we stop reading
we write only when
          something wrong occurs

when we write
we start reading when
          something mirthful occurs

we compliment the dead
     and the suicidal
     --the suicidees

we are something, public
that has lasted
     this long

when we steal
and not even replace it
     with a helpful, joyful smile
          of appreciation

when we yell
and the children cry
because their pain is only emotional
     because they need to feel a harsh
          beating

when we lie
because it's just a bit more
     simpler
          than explaining the entire story

when we pawn off
    the pawns

and when
     the cats refuse to get close enough
to be pet

the public
is something

[revise]