Thursday, July 8, 2010

979. AN AD LIB FROM THE EMBARCADERO CENTER

AN AD LIB FROM THE
EMBARCADERO CENTER

You commissioned my shame you moron
hip-swoon June moon Caligula you.
The five tables are set high, the ghost
marksman with the extra eye sets his
sights on you. Amazed and emulsified,
he emancipates the ledger, and there is
no one left to die. That wheeze I hear,
it's my own dear lungs lunging to die.
-
Tuesday was no different than the rest.
Alcatraz had deep-brewed Peet's all
over it - coffee smells a mile away.
-
Nothing ran down the urinal but water,
Pat at the tap thought it was apt.
-
I drank from the flask you were carrying.
'Whiskey for Gods,' you said. I
snapped back quickly. 'God
is dead? No? Dead!'
-
'I'll drink to that,' you smiled.
'You'll drink to anything,'
I said.

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