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A DWINDLING BREED OF MAVERICK
I was feeding the hungry jukebox
Quarters, nickels and little dimes
It all went down that shiny machine’s throat
Like a double shot of Dewar’s
Boy, could that jukebox drink
I
was guzzling a long neck
Shaking both my legs to
The little vinyl record
That scratched out an angry song
Little movies told in three short minutes
Play it again and again and again
I know what that guy’s been through
I know that pain
I know that pain
I
was buying a round of drinks for the morning crowd
Felt tempted by the big grin of the open poker table
My black fingernails drummed on the beer stained
counter
I lit a Camel with a Lucky Strike
And watched the smoke write ghostly white scribble
In the Pabst Blue Ribbon air
There will always be East Side Kids you know
Their clothes and caps may change
But they’ll always walk in the shadow of
Huntz Hall
Looking through broken windows
Spraying graffiti on walls
Smoking two inch butts
With some hooker’s lipstick traces on the filter
Ha. Do those boys ever wonder?
Where those lips have been?
I
guess not
Take another drag buddy…
It all goes down just the same
Every man has his poison
Every man lives
In his tucked away tenement heart
Every man has a name he carries to his grave
But I’m like a sidewalk
That hides each step its ever known
I’m the well-traveled road
That brings me nowhere
I’m a fingerprint on some bond paper
In a dark forgotten file
If mold could grow on my brain
What a rich delicious cheese I’d be
I
stand and gulp my boilermaker
Watching parking lot Romeos
Park more than just cars
Blind to an apocalyptic vagina
As she opens wide and winks her eye
I wear a dirty collar and holy boots
I’ve got phone numbers on a napkin
That could lead me to the kind of love
Classified as an honest man’s sin
I would like to set aside this no name whiskey
Just once
And share a brandy with someone
Who knows my real name ~
Did
you know I had a real name?
This body didn’t come with any guarantees
You know
But someone was proud enough to name it
I
wonder if I have his wavy hair
Or if he’s circumcised like me
I wonder if he gave me my big feet
Or if he roots for the Yankees or the Mets
And
I wonder if I suckled at her breasts
And if she smiled with a dimple in her left cheek
I wonder if she gave me my olive complexion
Or if she got sad when she listened to Billie Holiday
Like me
Someone was proud enough
To name me
I just
Never met them, see
I
never met them
John Apice hails from New Jersey and has worked as a
publicist, photographer, disc jockey and song lyricist
before settling into his current career in film and
graphics. His poetry has recently appeared in "Skaters
Out On A Winter's Haunt," and "One Room Lives." A
collection: Fugitive Pieces and Pawnshop Poems, is
being prepared for 2003. John lives with his family on
Lake Hopatcong. |