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Hes taking ice in his water rocks in his drink

You ever see anything like itIve never seen anything like itNot in regards to him

Hes usually staid stoic unremarkably noncontroversially controversial

Ice is antithetical to who he is

His ethic his morose dull dyed-in-the-wool face-in-the-mirror Mirror mirror on the wall Whaddafucks up widdat?

when he finally got up from his stool at the bar he abruptly saluted his reflection in the mirror behind the bottle

a quick touch of his finger to his eyebrow

unsteady

he took a somber deep breath

grounded himself

took on the weight the air fed him

he staggered a couple more steps

stopped

sucked up a few more heavy breaths

better   he seemed

walking   the stagger staggered out of him

he crossed the naked stained wood floor

crossed the bluelit bar and exited

I saw him scribble at a napkin with a cheap ballpoint pen  when he stood he stuck it in the back pocket of his worn jeans   they were frayed at his thighs

the napkin remained

its corner tucked under the emptied iced tumbler 

that was unlike him

he never left anything he wrote

not that I ever saw

I crossed the floor to where he sat

he should have been a tagger

what did it read

after awhile my eyes grew accustom to the scratch
Jesus

I am the left hand of God(he was lefthanded  the napkin was to the left of his emptied drink) He uses me to wipe his ass

I knew certain cultures  such as the Japanese  would have put him to death as a child when his prominent hand was realised

theyre righthanded   wiped their asses with the fingers of their left

lefthanded was deemed Evil
                                               sacrilegious   unclean   

the ice in the tumbler shifted clinked as it melted

he left a postscript What is, is wrong.

so much for staid

he rarely ever used punctuation

huh

I am the left hand of GodHe uses me to wipe his ass

I went outside into the embrace of the cold night air

he was nowhere to be seen

in the fresh fallen snow I saw his sharp footsteps in relief

no staggering

they strode to the curb where he must have paused and lit a cigarette 

 

a burnt wood match  dropped  had melted the flakes surrounding it

his footprints went left

there were several 

they stopped

as if he disappeared

1325,  Sunday  later a Super Moon and an eclipse,  27  9. 15