August 2001 / Volume Two / Issue Two
NOTE: This poem is divided into two parts. Click ">" at the bottom of the page to access the next.
Jason Floyd Williams
surrogate muses.

When I wake, my mind
wombles back to yesterday—
Tom doin’ Heston from Apes—
chest jutted out, arms
splayed sideways, yelling:
“It’s a madhouse! Madhouse!”
While I jump crazed-gorilla,
imaginary hose in hands.
Later, we all journeyed
into a thick jock forest—
Bob brought an inflatable
Spider-Man & thunks fast
several big men who
must live w/barbers &
threaten them daily
for trims.
When they get angry,
he simply says, “It’s the super-hero,
not me.”
A ventriloquist alibi.

Tonight, we’re able
to sing/screech karoake again.
New bar: The Eagles.

2 seats over, at our
shared round table,
is Ernie.
Ernie’s a 79 yr old Iwo Jima vet.
He stands & does
wild, wind-up convulsions
on the dance floor.

I buy him a couple drafts,

thank ‘im for my freedom &
we yell together when Bill
belts out a Johnny tune.
Further into the night,

forgotten amounts of booze,
at least a couple White Russians
in me, we’re at a strip joint.

I give the gal in
the mermaid dress—
someone abducted from my
subconscious puddles—
a John Adams statue, 2 plastic piglets
& a rubber snake because
I’m broke.
She’s thrilled & gives
me a hug.
Shows me her polaroid
in the stripper-family album.
Her name, Leslie, is
kinda hot-stamped to her
upper arm.
Almost charcoaled.
I notice it while we’re standing
outside watching a lesbian dancer
duel w/her sister
in the snow.
We’re all Angels with dirty faces
wrestling w/someone,
I think.