A drunk man contemplates his parents and childhood. |
A DWINDLING BREED OF MAVERICK I was feeding the hungry jukebox Quarters, nickels and little dimes It all went down that shiny machine’s throat Like a double shot of Dewar’s Boy, could that jukebox drink I was guzzling a long neck Shaking both my legs to the little vinyl record That scratched out an angry song Little movies told in three short minutes Play it again, again and again I know what that guy’s been through I know that pain I know that pain I was buying a round of drinks for the morning crowd Felt tempted by the big grin of the open poker table My black fingernails drummed on the beer stained counter I lit a Camel with a Lucky Strike and Watched the smoke write ghostly white scribble In the Pabst Blue Ribbon air There will always be East Side Kids you know Their clothes and caps may change But they’ll always walk in the shadow of Leo Gorcey and Huntz Hall Looking through broken windows Spraying graffiti on walls Smoking two inch butts with some... Hooker’s lipstick traces on the filter, ha Do those boys ever wonder where those lips have been? I guess not Take another drag buddy It all goes down just the same Every man has his poison Every man lives in his tucked away tenement heart Every man has a name he carries to his grave But I’m like a sidewalk that Hides each step it’s ever known I’m the well-traveled road that brings me nowhere I’m a fingerprint on some bond paper In a dark forgotten file If mold could grow on my brain What a rich delicious cheese I’d be I stand and gulp my boilermaker Watching parking lot Romeos park more Than just cars Blind to an apocalyptic vagina As she opens wide and winks her eye I wear a dirty collar and holy boots I’ve got phone numbers on a napkin that Could lead me to the kind of love Classified as an honest man’s sin I would like to set aside this no name whisky Just once And share a brandy with someone Who knows my real name? Did you know I had a real name? This body didn’t come with any guarantees you know But someone was proud enough to name it I wonder if I have His wavy hair or if He’s circumcised like me? I wonder if He gave me my big feet or if He roots for the Yankees or Mets And I wonder if I suckled at Her breasts? And if She smiled with a dimple in Her left cheek? I wonder if She gave me my olive complexion or if She got sad when she listened to Billie Holiday Like me Someone was proud enough to name me I just never met them, see I never met them Words by John Apice (aka LaStrada) C-Copyright 2002 House of Apice Poetry Originally appeared on poetz.com |