at this time & location & juxtaposition to jello-soul
this is the
kind of bar
i went to
in my early twenties
when i wore tight lycra shirts
& fisted speed
& still
ignominiously genuflected
to pussy
as a
viable
long-term
concept.
decade later
i'm old man
at a coworker's
bachelor party.
my face rudolph
my fat arms
sweaty anvils
choking the bar.
i haven't seen
coworker
or his other
penny-nails
in over
an hour.
one of the
poor little shits
lost his muesli
when i bought everyone
a double 151.
what’s this?
here comes daffodil
of razor-blade hair
& peach-fuzz midriff
for another
twelve dollar martini.
i wouldn't
fuck you
for all the olives
in italy,
i say
in deference to principle
while watching a blade
on the ceiling fan
up and left.
leather huaraches
calves like minnows
to the
other side of the bar
where she
points me out
to the tender
he
who whistles for the doorman
to come over.
good
good,
i smile to myself
& squeegee sweat
from my eyebrows
& forearms
preparing an
adequate
acceptance speech.
like cracking a beer
feeding
a stray dog
or rolling your sleeves
up past elbow
as the first eye
of spring sun
kisses the skin:
a night
of new pussy
never gets old.
man in a wheelchair in front of the VA hospital
gayle was a brick tender
his entire
working life.
at forty-five
he took a night class
in sociology
at drake.
sometimes after class
he'd drink irish whiskey
with the professor
at Flanagan's.
one night
the professor was shit-faced
he hit on the girlfriend
of drake's middle linebacker.
gayle stepped in
broke the kid's jaw
spent a week in jail.
the professor
is now an esteemed lecturer
at an ivy league university.
he's written an autobiography
and there is gayle
on page 122.
only the sum-bitch
calls me randy
and says he saved my ass
with some slick words,
gayle says
as i light his cigarette for him.
but i'll give him that
seein' as i took thirty
maybe forty
good pulls
on his wife.
Justin Hyde
