Sunday, December 7, 2008

dirty martini

.
Hanging out
with a handful of
businessmen the other night,
at a bar in Chelsea, as a favor--
for a buddy's friend, I ordered:
a dirty Beefeater martini,
when someone asked me
what I was having--provoking
the head wolf (obviously in
charge) to say, "Whoa,
that's a BIG DRINK for
a little girl like you,"
kind of dramatically to his
other businessmen colleagues,
very nudgingly and winkingly,
& as they howled in unison
from: sexual tension,
intimidation, occupational
hierarchy, boring sexless,
loveless marriages, Viagra
dependent erectile
dysfunction, the full-moon
demi-entendre, in-the-closet
trans-gender porn addictions,
upper thigh & elbow psoriasis
--or probably, maybe
even general nervousness...
I nuclear bombed the world
in my head, & smiled
before taking
my first salty sip.
.

3 comments:

Sabra Embury said...

I meant for this poem to be in the shape of a turd and I'm feeling pretty smug about it.

Like...seriously.

No.

I'm Serious.

ryan manning said...

steady cash flow without a real job

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