Some Times

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Sometimes the sun sets at the exact same time it rises against a new day.

Sometimes people converge and then release, our words rope in furor or keep destruction at bay, when we’re unable to discern between what’s proper or prosperous or what’s senseless or dangerous is what makes all relationships invaluable. Every past relationship and their influences count towards the sum of who we are today. There’s never waste in knowing someone because everyone delivers a bit of blue sky whether they carry black clouds and chips on shoulders or merely the weight of the past on their back.

Sometimes it takes a little sunshine on the cheek to realize what must be done and other times it takes a brick to the face.

Service Animals

Next time I see a woman at the store walking a small dog I’m going to grab that leash and run so her canine-rat bounces along the ground behind me like a tetherball. Like a mountain Vietnamese I’m going to skewer that little shitzuahua on a spit and grub him down like a tailgate party kebab. High five.

Whatever mammal you decide to bring to a public establishment better be your child or your service animal. If they’re one and the same, even better. I was told that it’s within the bounds of the law to ask whether an animal is a service animal or not but it’s unlawful to ask what service their animal provides. Wha-?

I’m going to petition that a monkey in a diaper to be my service animal so whenever I see someone with a little dog in a purse or on their arm in the video store line, my pint-sized primate is going to launch doo-doo balls like hot mortars and I’m going to stand and laugh and laugh. When the store clerk asks me why I have a monkey with bowels that bomb such cute little doggies, I’m going to tell her it’s my public service animal.

And all those who hold cell phones to their heads while changing lanes, those who use words like “LOL” in a speaking sentence, those who yell at their kids as if they were kids themselves, and those who thrive on the misfortune of others (politicians, brokers, bankers, doctors, lawyers, etc.) all get doo-doo bombed by my monkey in Huggies.

The Twenties

The first 20 seconds of a conversation determines whether your future contains pleasure and interest or fits of yawning and pending rage. 20 degrees south on a torso and you’ll know whether to continue the venture. 20 minutes into a movie usually better getcha goin’ and 20 years oughta be enough to learn a few things.

You’d think it oughta.

She Swings Like A Champion

She swings like a champion,
a rampant title fighter
with blazing eyes and frothing insults
spit like venom from reptile daggers.

Whether a lamp or a telelphone, or just a ring of keys,
objects wrapped in fists launched like warheads
luckily plunge far and wide.

Hands through drywall
like gorilla fists past car windows,
slivers of the mirror deep in the carpet
sparkle like snow in the shattered hallway.

Wrought iron fences watch as my things are thrown over
and the dogs all cirlcle like some angry hunt.
Lights on the pathway weave with temperance
a feigned accord manicured with growth and green

that match her eyes, calculating and arranged
with such horrible order and cool determination
I’m in awe of such evil,
an absolute masterpiece of destruction.

When the fury finally wanes
the lust doth wax.
Vehemence is followed by wanton consumption
of each others’ heat and breath.

The blood and rage simmers down to skin we covet,
armor is exhumed as fingers and mouths
burgeon a new battle,
forging into soft wilderness with careful movements.

The fierce adrenaline
traded for new endorphins
floods our fluids
in a warm revelation.

When I awake, alone,
still drunk on fancy and rancor,
I feel my cheek where the rock she wears
dug an indelible ditch beneath my eye.

Nighttime violence
is the aperitif of insane copulation.
A habit dressed in misdemeanors
that requests orders of restraint.

Resolving to never press charges
assumes our mad devotion,
assuages our cold loneliness and
assures our uncertain sanctity.

In Drinking We Trust

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Long standing bars whose histories and legacy of neighborhood service have watched presidential tenures come and go, old laws be broken and new laws enacted are growing more valuable by the second. They’ve seen how people, style and tastes change over the decades, and only a few storied bars are still serving communities their certain brand of revelry and respite. No other institution can boast as many wild tales through bygone eras as a legendary bar.

Except maybe a church.

A house of god and spiritual worship, where those who are lost converge to find a common direction with others, a haven where everyone is part of a following but on a very personal journey to find a piece of heaven.

Are we still talking about church, you lovely dipsomaniac?