we take what we can get
nothing to be done at four in the morning
on a saturday
but sit and drink
rum in the rain
that rolls off the ocean
in fits and starts
of Dionysian rage:
Zephyr and Aeolus, two barflies,
duking it out off
while toothless mary watches
with glee and waits to
pick up the pieces
worth taking home.
south of all reason
in back alleys lined with rotting dogs clinging to this world
under a silt sky threatening to unload the weight of the heavens
too young filipinas ply their trade
calling to tourists in voices marked with ash
like poltergeists pushing, pulling, prodding with forces imperceptible and inexorable.
a line of korean businessmen stumble out a neon tunnel of love
one of them breaks from the pack, falters,
and plants his baby face in a run of untreated sewage.
the world is full of such perfect moments.
bio: Leeroy Berlin is--in one sense or another--not dead yet although we only have these poems as evidence. Find more of his poetry published in Gloom Cupboard, Red Fez, The Camel Saloon, and other publications at leeroyberlin.com