drinking beer with david from el solitario

lots of beer makes me want to write poetry.

the cocaine of politics
of beer drinking revolutions in corporate boardrooms
bored bar stools
supporting dreams held hostage for greed
if i could only afford

the heroin of television
teaching speaking making belief
should we not spend more time talking to ***
or scoring our latest hit from a pistol and a scar
tattoos won’t mean anything when we’re dead
and the earth’s inhabitants wonder what we might taste like anyway

to be old and wise and ugly
smiling
to be respected and true
so few left

david called me four times in as many minutes.

“if you don’t call me i think i will get arrested! ha ha ha!”
he doesn’t want to get arrested in new orleans.

“trent! what the f**k good day!”
it was past nightfall and i knew he was more loaded than i was. i ordered a beer.

then the last message had girls singing “wa wa waaaaaa!” more laughter.

i forgot the first voice message. i deleted it in case the police called. so sick of cops. called david and told him where to find me. he brought a friend from miami. he’s a troublemaker and i liked him a lot. somehow i suckered him into buying a $7.50 pack of american spirit blacks from the vending machine. they kept feeding them to me.

david and his friend came to my neighborhood bar where some people (including the owner) carry guns. it’s a safe place, actually. we played half a game of pool and forgot as we laughed and talked of nothing serious. serious will come tomorrow. in the cool sunlight. sober. for a few minutes.

then i will introduce david to the hand grenade. don’t worry, i won’t have one. i will be the designated something or other….

take your fancy camera and shove it up your art directed ***. we be sportin’ dark and blurry smart phone pix. anything else is a misrepresentation of the night we spent.

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