you
need friends
my
wife
sometimes
badgers.
i
think
it's some sort of
acute uncoiling
of her own
oprah induced neurosis
because
she
knows
i've always
been a
loner.
besides,
tonight
here in the
basement
i've
got socrates over there
grilling my dog
on the definition of
is.
henry
miller's
on the computer
whacking off to
hairy beaver porn.
nietzsche's
spray painting horses
on the ceiling.
jack
london 's
in the other room
fixing my washing machine
and trying to get into
ayn rand's pants.
carver's
telling me
how to fillet a salmon
and we're showing each other
pictures of our fathers.
bukowski's
bleeding out of his asshole
in the corner
screaming at the top of his lungs
for someone to notice him.
that
midget bookworm sartre's
here somewhere -
hopefully
upstairs
giving it to my wife,
keep
her the fuck off
my back
hey!
who told dylan thomas
he could bartend tonight?
fucking
lush gonna
drink all the rum
what's
that ray?
you got a stash
out in your trunk?
oh
fuck
let him bartend then
hey
ernest
ernest!
sack up buddy
put that shotgun on dylan
he can bartend and do stand-up
until he goes hoarse
but
if he starts in with his poetry again
give him both barrels
jesus
christ!
somebody
go over there
and give bukowski
a hug.
some
bar-napkin genealogy on a tuesday afternoon
the
men
in my family
have all
drank themselves
to death
but
if
my
long division
is correct
it took them an average of
62.86 years
to get the job done
(now
my great-great grandfather
who enjoyed absinthe
just a much as whiskey
strung it out for 103 years and
outliers like that
skew the hell out of a
straight arithmetic mean
so it's probably closer to
53 years but
this is a poem
not some god-damned
statistics lecture)
bottom
line
if
you're a
fan of my poetry
there should be more to come
for another
33.47 years
and
if you're not
there's always
lightning,
bear
attack,
killer
bees from
brazil ,
or
the offhand chance
i'll actually
find the stones someday
and
pull
the trigger.
i
just want you do know
i
just want you to know
i could snuff you out
in an instant,
was the only thing he said
before flipping open his knife
at the video arcade in ankeny
and slashing
the guy's throat.
minutes
of testimony
show there were seven witnesses
all of them said
it was completely
unprovoked.
seventeen
when it happened,
did five years in anamosa.
he's
one of these guys
comes to work release
with next to nothing - -
maybe
twenty bucks on his books
still
wears the thick rimmed
prison issued glasses and
stiff
dark blue
jean jacket.
when
i got to know him a little
i asked about it
while patting him in
after his shift
at titan.
told
him
i read everyone's files
for my safety
that
he didn't have to talk to me
about it
if he didn't want to.
slid
his wallet
and comb
in his back pocket
i
had about a fifth
all to myself
that day,
he said.
said
he didn't remember saying that
didn't
remember hardly anything from that day
but
it's
exactly
what his third foster dad
said to him every night
before beating his legs
with the thin edge
of a yardstick.
Biography:
My name is Justin Hyde. I live in Iowa where I work
as a correctional officer. My first book of poetry 'Down where the hummingbird
goes to die' is available from The Guild of Outsider Writers, Zygote
in my coffee and Amazon. I am also a poetry editor for Thieves Jargon.
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