(For Bryan Borland)
We spoke,
Comparing notes of audio and hooch;
He told me he was listening gangsta
And downing a 40 oz.,
I told him I was listening to one of Hank Bukowski’s live records
And craving a bottle of cheap wine to go with it.
But I couldn’t get it;
The liquor stores were closed
And it was too far to walk to a bar that was open.
Even if I could, they wouldn’t have what I needed,
Whoever heard of a bar serving Mad Dog or Night Train?
We both wanted to get the Blue Laws changed
So outlaws like us could get hooch on Sunday.
Maybe I should be a Catholic so I’d have an excuse
For wine on Sunday,
Pray to Jesus to turn my tap water
Into a jug of Carlo Rossi, sweet poet’s wine.
He told me I looked hot
With my hair and beard braided and dyed
And my bare chest scrawled with stage blood.
I had a private chuckle;
Thinking about Chuck telling me
I looked hot in ceremonial gear,
“Chief Smokempole”, the guys in Swamp City said,
Or Eric wondering how I didn’t have a perpetual hard-on
Surrounded by shirtless, meaty-smelling guys.
I couldn’t keep a hard-on there if I wanted,
The septic smell of the forever clogged johns
Killing whatever drive I had.
It’s all funny in a way to me;
Sex at all or even a good compliment on my appearance
Is as rare for me around here
As a bottle of single-malt Scotch.
Right before he said goodbye
He reminded me
That it wasn’t his fetish, but he liked the results,
That it was his wifely duty
To shave his husband’s ass.
–Walter Beck