Ill blame a gimlet every time
its
Rose
slipping effortlessly across my tongue
its
quick
quiet gin grinning
kidding
poking with sharp elbows
and laughing hysterically
but
silently behind the scene
its
hand slowly begins to constrict into a fist
to pummel
and smash as a drunken fist
will
and waking in the morning
to bathe it in an ice-water bath
to alleviate its pain and
swelling its purple broken-skin
knuckles ice cubes bundled
in a stale filthy washcloth and
held firm against a smashed nose or a split
blood-congealed eyebrow
maybe blaming a gimlet is wrong
an excuse
a tried-and-true gimmick
a gimlet gimmick
I said it first
like that title that book
Life Without Limits a christianbook.com
brave helping
which Ive dubbed: Life Without Limbits
sardonic
perhaps cruel
but I didnt balance a young man
bereft at birth of arms and legs atop a white sheet
against a green grass picnic
setting
and pitch how fucking happy he is
grinning
as if he were incorruptible
“A long-time resident of
Australia, Nick now lives with his wife in southern California.”
his wife
must be a saint!
her ID is Nicks
wife
how fucking generous
a woman virtually untouched
imagine
being untouched unstroked
imagine
arms not thrown about you or legs
not wrapped around you holding you fast
holding you against your
will willfully
hair unclasped unpulled
a head not clutched and lips not
split on your lips in mad livid passion
and not have that warm delectable
dribble of blood wiped gently from the corner of your
mouth or that happy dexterous
finger to suck at as it dips into your mouth and plays
with your tongue
Nicks wife
is a fucking saint
but she hasnt a name
shes Nicks wife
the gimlet subtly
has intruded
Im talking
with a drink
or maybe this is a talk one can
only have with a drink
an entity
that neither condemns
nor condones
that just listens
hears
priestly
bartenderly
friendly
Fucked up!
these Gimlet fists or Gimlet tears
Gimlet gimmicks
Im adverse to none of them
Ill take whats in store any
particular night
my face aint so pretty not to
take a punch
my hands are restless so aint no misgivings when they crunch up and
whip out on the
ends of my arms
they aint so pretty either
they got what you might
call character
if I got anything
I got character
and character
is like a real good pair of
leather shoes
you can resole and reheel
and an icy gimlets like a good
spit-polish shine
refreshing
the hard-worn leather sucks it
up
0159, Friday, 31
5. 13
