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![Image for the poem bad night for poets](/images/uploads/poemimages/241941.jpg?1466729240)
bad night for poets
joe’s bar
easy name to remember
used to be my favorite hangout
until they found out about me…
a night in august, hot,
so hot your skin melted if you went out for a smoke,
trickled like a muddy river out of your shoes.
big guy standin next to me at the bar, sleeveless t-shirt,
guzzlin colt 45 double malt. he annoyed me, so i said:
read any good poems lately? you know, real smart-ass.
he laughed, looked at me like i’m a moron, said: if i need
to read i’ll get a newspaper or a skin mag, i get news for
my brain & my dick.
i say yeah, yeah, but you still need Art, Literature, Poetry.
so somebody yells why? & somebody else yells yeah, why?
so now it’s personal, i gotta defend Art, Passion…
the words shoot outa my mouth like skyrockets, smash
on the ceiling comes thunder, vowels & wounded syllables
droppin in little silk parachutes, fractured lights flashin,
somebody throws a bottle at the back-bar mirror, then
another, tommy the bartender gets cut up bad,
2 guys grabbin a screamin blonde nasty-like, bones
crackin, blood splattered, citizens rushin out the door,
others rushin in…i take off out the back like my butt’s
on fire, & I’m still hidin out…
& for me joe’s bar is a julie-london-singin-the-blues memory
ever since that night
they don’t allow poets…
(Art: Brassai)
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