Friday, December 18, 2009


I stumbled out the steel door
into the alley
gasping for the cool night air,
my mind intoxicated by
the music inside
and the martini’s
pulsating through my veins.
I saw him
leaning against the brick wall
one leg against it
and one on the ground
hotboxing his Newport
with one hand
and holding a brown bag special
in the other.
He smiled at me
like a lion about to pounce
and the sense of danger
was erotic.
He asked if I wanted to go
somewhere else,
with him,
and spice up the night.
I knew exactly what he wanted
and told him to lead the way.
When we got to his car
I asked him his name,
thinking I should know something
about this stranger that was
about to rock my world.
“It’s Dwight,” he said.
“Dwight Dingleberry.”
And I knew in an instance that I
had just left a headbangers ball
for a beer garden polka.
Fuck my luck.

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