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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Emotional · #1730733
A drunk man contemplates his parents and childhood.

I was feeding the hungry jukebox
Quarters, nickels and little dimes
It all went down that shiny machine’s throat
Like a double shot of Dewar’s
Boy, could that jukebox drink

I was guzzling a long neck
Shaking both my legs to the little vinyl record
That scratched out an angry song
Little movies told in three short minutes
Play it again, again and again
I know what that guy’s been through
I know that pain
I know that pain

I was buying a round of drinks for the morning crowd
Felt tempted by the big grin of the open poker table
My black fingernails drummed on the beer stained counter
I lit a Camel with a Lucky Strike and
Watched the smoke write ghostly white scribble
In the Pabst Blue Ribbon air

There will always be East Side Kids you know
Their clothes and caps may change
But they’ll always walk in the shadow of
Leo Gorcey and Huntz Hall
Looking through broken windows
Spraying graffiti on walls
Smoking two inch butts with some...
Hooker’s lipstick traces on the filter, ha
Do those boys ever wonder where those lips have been? I guess not

Take another drag buddy
It all goes down just the same
Every man has his poison
Every man lives in his tucked away tenement heart
Every man has a name he carries to his grave
But I’m like a sidewalk that
Hides each step it’s ever known
I’m the well-traveled road that brings me nowhere
I’m a fingerprint on some bond paper
In a dark forgotten file
If mold could grow on my brain
What a rich delicious cheese I’d be

I stand and gulp my boilermaker
Watching parking lot Romeos park more
Than just cars
Blind to an apocalyptic vagina
As she opens wide and winks her eye
I wear a dirty collar and holy boots
I’ve got phone numbers on a napkin that
Could lead me to the kind of love
Classified as an honest man’s sin
I would like to set aside this no name whisky
Just once
And share a brandy with someone
Who knows my real name?

Did you know I had a real name?
This body didn’t come with any guarantees you know
But someone was proud enough to name it
I wonder if
I have His wavy hair or if
He’s circumcised like me?
I wonder if He gave me my big feet or if
He roots for the Yankees or Mets

And I wonder if I suckled at Her breasts?
And if She smiled with a dimple in Her left cheek?
I wonder if She gave me my olive complexion or if
She got sad when she listened to Billie Holiday
Like me

Someone was proud enough to name me
I just never met them, see

I never met them

Words by John Apice (aka LaStrada)
C-Copyright 2002 House of Apice Poetry
Originally appeared on poetz.com
© Copyright 2010 LaStrada (lastrada at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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