Cigarette breath death
has me by the shirt,
forcing nose to nose
examination of supposed
determination caused by
flagrant violations
of intelligence.

This includes manipulations
and my recent machinations
of a wooden consecration
of my skill and thoughtfulness.

Came to have a beer
not to live in fear of
Bubba and his
other brother Daryl.

I played pool at my own
peril and I won.
Just like a fool that
tells a lady what he
really thinks of
something that she wears,
and then endures the stares
that say he'll just remain undone.
No fun.

So now I pay the price
of standing wedged between
"might is right",
the wall,
and anyone's
right to breathe the air
with freedom from stupidity.

Bubba
seems to grow with fright,
and really deep down,
likes to see the other patrons
running to the night
with orphaned drinks and
sometimes coats,
avoiding tightened throats
and general blood that might be theirs.

I know,
I've seen,
not mean,
just wise is all.

Fool,
used the wrong hand.
Open lymph gland.
I neatly stabbed the 'pit
not too deep,
just bleed a bit,
sure to keep his greasy
meathooks off of me
for now.

Left knee gave a crack,
what the hell,
he fell back,
and twisted with
a roar but not wanting
any more of my face
in his place.
Kick-start his limp.

Daryl?
Why he's no fun.
He's not smart enough
to run and leave the
nose up on his face
sitting rightly in its place,
smack-crack.
Smell that.

Me cold?
No, just too old
to put up with these
games and to suffer with
the pains that the Bubbas
of the world seem to offer
day by day.

Sad part of it,
dumb shit,
doesn't know that he’s been had.
But I know,
I used to drink with Bubba's dad.
Don't call me Daryl.

01/25/2009

Posted on 01/25/2009
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers