“Do you think it’s the apocalypse?”
“You mean right this minute, or in general?”
I have never been asked this question
With such earnest,
From a sane, pragmatic individual.
Sane, in the sense he has made money.
Sane, in the sense he has children.
Sane, in the sense I trust him not to become incarcerated.
Is this pragmatic thinking?
Port City walks of life,
Brick and old industry.
Pull Little Dogs from Great Bay.
Crushed ice by the pound
Keeps them on display.
Price liquor and ceviche
For the booze hounds.
I wonder how long
This waking life will last.
A snapshot, shuttering for a century,
A blur of tattoos and painted toenails,
Filter five hour long exposures.
A smoke and pancake.
Kettle One Martini straight up-
“Why is this shaken and strained?”
“The system made me choose a modifier”.
I have four draughts to draw
From a hydra headed tap.
When the back of the house shuts down
The front is soon to follow.
Count tilled treasure.
Smoke cigarettes trying to relieve the hunger.
Working until 2 A.M.
Mopping a blood stained
Potato peeled floor.
To supplement my basement
Kitchen, I’m pinchin’:
3/8th’s of a plastic bear shaped bottle of honey.
I have the tea.
I have the coffee.
I have a tea bag that looks like metal tongs.
Made of bulbous, Iron-mesh bongs.