amphibi.us

i’ll tell you this.
the last time i burned rock in the glass dick
they found me in a santa suit walking up and down Military Trail
throwing bags of shit at cars and reciting Kierkegaard outloud.
i woke up in the drunk tank
in hallandale beach florida
next to a cuban tranny
who was urinating in my hair entertaining the other men.
over here
the addiction you have
is replaced with the addiction to God.
The Twelve Steps.
a higher power.
i don’t know what’s worse
living in the suburbs paying bills and clocking in and out of a state job
mowing your lawn every friday
taking the kids and wife to the mall
snapping family portraits and sending them to grandma
or putting in a 12-hour shift on the kill floor of an abattoir
taking hits of whiskey during breaks
or smoking meth at happy hour.

(“oh how men suffer for children.”)

© Alex M. Pruteanu, 2010

[others]

on the platform
waiting for the number 7 train
there’s a Jazzman
a real Jazzman
with road dust hair
and million mile eyes
digging the roots of cool for
cap-toed, flannel suited worker-bees
and those ladies who lunch
from Westchester and Rye
pushing thousand dollar Aprica strollers
their pretty Suburban feet
clickety-clacking to the beat
on the piss-stained subway floor.

silver bullets of improvisation
tear through the dirty skin
of the underground like shrapnel
explode against graffiti walls
and rain down on the deaf ears
of apoplectic suburban drones

only the rats and I
are a bloody
beautiful
mess

pinstriped parades of MBA’s
and dot.com commandos
with pocket change to spare
spin blindly by his half-full jar of “tips appreciated”
and all the while
the Jazzman
blows hard notes
in a loud room
‘Trane and Prez and Parker riffs
electric
third-rail
Grand Central blues.

© Ag Synclair, 2009

[others]