Day by Day
Outta HereI wait beneath the willow.
So many young people.
The young men with their young women dancing.
Fireflies and a moon above.
Screw them all.
Lawn party..why am I here? I need another martini.
I would go but my wife took my keys.
The Stars The Stars
All the night the moon shone
The stars burned in the golden sky,
I watch "Gilligan's Island" On an old black and white TV.
I pass the window to get another drink
Thinking of the Professor.
There is no other life.
All the Holy Night
The immensity of the universe!
Reading the New Yorker
A nice New Yorker cartoon.
Skipping the shitty poems.
My Martini is so cold.
Look there's a cartoon I missed!
Something You Can Count On
The moon is like a gypsy playing a yellow guitar.
A martini is just a martini. Every damn time.
The Plum Wine of the Buddha
This is just to say that
The Plum Wine of the Buddha
Cannot properly be called a cocktail.
In Martini Veritas
After five martinis
Soft jazz
Still sounds like shit
Praise
I hold a Martini
As I recite my poem to myself.
The sound of one hand clapping!
Nighthawk Outside the Diner
After five martinis
What's not to like?
I'll go in.
They'll want to hear my poetry.
posted by & @ 9:12 AM
7 Comments:
Geepers, Lon. I much prefer your "Rock'N'Rye anthology" to this martini drivel. Reminds me of my immature gin and tonic stuff. Although that was in my Bright Lights Big City phase. The martini stuff harkens back to your amatuer furniture builder days. How's bout you pick a beverage that is a bit more robust. Might I suggest a rum baba?
g
Middle age must be taking its toll. Jesus, writing about a fucking cocktail. Here is something written by a man.....Me!
The pale skin girls in their flip flops. Rubber slapping the El stair treads. Smooth thigh whispering to smooth thigh. A hint of bra strap. Nose freckles. A powdery trail.
g
Good God G -- what poor stuff!
I need another cocktail.
You never tolerated alcohol well, Lon. You start babbling like a drunk sea captain, who has never been to sea...just sketchy bits of plots of old episodes of Sea Hunt. And, of course, the trail of your dead skin clogs my aparatus.
g
No, I do a fine imitation of the Triumphal March in Aida. As you well know.
Yes, how could I forget you slurring "Let the bitches miss us," in middle English.
g
I love Tu Mani!
The Basho of Bud.
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