|January 2001 / Volume Two / Issue One|
|Jason Floyd Williams|
Sometimes nothin' happens:
Like the time I was feelin'
much near Oswald after a bad
injection-press mold, 100 lb tortoise skin
perjuring itself as an army jacket,
and a shaven-head- where, if I
had a daughter, she might have been
accused of cutting it while I slept, and
I walked past the clean, clean suits,
the still-tagged dresses, to claim a seat
amongst gone-gone Republicans in an
Alan Keyes presidential forum.
Just wanted to dig a political vibe,
but the whole time was waitin' fer
a hot .38 to give me a lap dance.
Other times, under great drunkeness
& a vacant heart, I may strip,
demand Pushkin's poetry turn erotic, offer
foot massages, yell at neighbors, bite bald heads,
kick in windows, truck-doors,
piss on new Aerostars,
"Even Christ flipped-out when
he turned over the gamblers' tables
That was the only time, and
he wasn't drunk.
|Return to January 2001|