less important things.
There’s almost a B-movie,
celebrity-vibe, a woodpecker
amongst sparrows at the
bird-feeder feel, to
entering a new bar.
Christmas lights strewn
like radioactive fish eggs
along the ceiling–
The bartender becomes a
child substitute to a barfly
divorce; it’s a
sandcastle made during
a tsunami dance contest.
And there’s always a
regular that wants to
grill ya.
The kinda guy that probably
sniffs used dental floss.
A fella full of topsoil,
with ideas like sediment.
And he always wants to gab
‘bout work, local sports, his
ex-wives, the bar & its internal
schematics, the other regulars;
it’s a sales pitch.
A gossip treaty made
between the U.S. &
Geronimo.
“Lately, I’ve been thinkin’
‘bout all the dogs I’ve
had interactions with
throughout my life–
The black lab chasin’ me
on my bike, gettin’
its back legs squished by a
passing car; a yellow St. Bernard my
father’s friend had, with its
side pierced by flies &
cabbage-rolled with maggots.
I had a lot of fun runnin’
through the woods with Bruno,
my German Shepard.
Maybe that’s why I love
Our Gang episodes so much
or when I see lil local kids &
their dogs outside wrestlin’.
There’s something primitive &
necessary in it.”
The regular-pile gets the
remote from the bartender
& turns up the volume
on the baseball game.
My next story was going
to be about eating hot peppers
& the parts of my body I
accidentally touched
afterwards.