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Date Posted: 04:20:41 10/12/03 Sun
Author: Dimon
Author Host/IP: 0-1pool123-174.nas4.tukwila2.wa.us.da.qwest.net / 67.5.123.174
Subject: My Beer On The Skids

It used to be
an emarld green
bamboo chair
(someone had accidently leg-shot himself in)
picked up from the Salvation Army
for a couple bucks
surrounded by other fabricated mean-streaks:
loaded,
high on testosterone
lead-singers,
guitarists,
pizza guys,
highschool athlete wanderers
wondering about life after breadth,
and middle-age kick-boxers
wandering about breadth after life-wondering.

It used to be
insidious enemy-cluster shadows,
mammoth lessons a rabbit run
just out of reach
but by glove or gun
the Hero
would walk
away

with

My prize,
an emerald green chair
soaked in experience,
a fiery gift from way down here
way down
from the heart.

Now, I'm the boar
stamping, writhing,
needled by bamboo,
hunted through mercantile head-shops
that barter cool-as-you
japanese fans or
peach cloister beverage skids.
No, I'm the bull
harangued by so may matrons
a wild, snorting, protagonist
they pretend to pen
smiling with turned rose cheeks
secretly slapping my flanks
and laughing
when the straw is churned about.

It used to be
an emerald writers game
a safari where no one loses
except the leapords
but they've got it all now
the effimate kitty exchange
our western culture
redefined
by no less than a butt-plug
a pink drink
and a cork "how-do-you-do?"
stamped on mahogany
with a smile
a mammary
and a "Dog will hunt" quip.
SM

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