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Array
(
[sid] => 1608
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => A Patron Asks Ben For a Cigarette
[time] => 2002-08-02 19:44:37
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => Another dead man is playing cards
drooling suitcase. "My three wishes," he states, "had never asked for the jack of diamonds." A twenty lost. "I'll give you a quarter between the sheets," says Ben finally, "so I'll see you tonight then? Smashing, so long!" And then there's me; walking along eleventh avenue. She runs by and her smile is delicious. Long black hair and gorgeous aura. Is this now my white t-bird? She's running by somewhere in this town wearing white shirts, but there's no Wolfman that can help me now. It was the previous night which Ben lit up after writing another stanza. He sits there now awaiting my arrival. The time will come when we'll be one, but he's given me that time to contemplate my final decision. Tonight, I think, he'll be going to some jazz show with a friend of his. I can hear the trumpet solo through his eyes. Bop bop bop, the ear's official orgasm sponsored by Lateef and Gillespie. I wish I could really be there with life's hand in mine. Another dead man is getting drunk striking matches. "My three wishes," he states, "had never asked for a life all alone." A twenty lost. In the mean time she runs by in my mind with that smile. She looked right at me, passing on the right for good luck. She's become my virus with only one glance! I can't take this stanza. Gulp. Flash. Inhale. As well as a virus, Ben and I infest. Our host is breaking down in chaos. I wonder sometimes if we need interfere at all. (And that is a thought which can work both ways. It's how we prevail I think). It's like Mike Ladd. We like Mike Ladd. We are his Infesticons: Poetic Branch Americana. We use telepathy in words and music, especially tonight with the club and all. The band is queued, I hear them now. My God it's wonderful, and explosive. Bop bop bop is the ear's official orgasm sponsored by Lateef and Gillespie. All those people, there, wearing their own pants, they get into it truthfully snapping. Their eyes don't blink, and as well don't their ears. As well as a virus, the rhythm lives to destroy all convention especially, as Davis and Parker walk in from Clarksdale. Another dead man is playing bass slap progression. "My three wishes," he states, "had never asked for the note on fret six." A twenty lost. All these people, here, want my pants. Not to get inside of them, fortunately, but just to wear them, and be cool, getting the girls, and taking them off again in the end. I wouldn't give one stitch or strand of hair to walk in their shoes, even if they were going to Clarksdale. A patron asks Ben for a cigarette. The kid's first drag tastes like aunt Jemima and pancakes. He's hooked for life (and death). "You'll want to wish for some water and a place to sit," advises Ben. The kid looks puzzled, and dizzy, then wishes, and sits. She's still running by so fast in slow-motion. That smile would wage a poetic war which could bring the entire universe down to its knees be given the chance. Everybody's pen would fall out of their shoe, and the musicianship of humanity would be enough to entertain. Bop bop bop, would be the ear's official orgasm sponsored by Lardmartyr and Gaucher, with the voice of Lateef and Gillespie. The time will come when we'll become one. The four of us in love of loving while receiving much. Our hearts will become limousines with tinted windows rolled down. Running, singing, wishing, and listening, with life's hand in ours. Another dead man is drawing blanks painting pictures. "My three wishes," he states, "had never asked for anything more than what I've got." A million gained. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 229 [topic] => 31 [informant] => Adam_Gaucher [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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