Issue |
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March |
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a poem by Willie Smith
DOWNTOWN OUTLET
Wino asleep in a waiting room,
awaiting the weave of his doom;
sweatshirt stiff with dried fluid,
torn jeans, ragged boots,
bozo lips ochre from sterno--no,
I do not know, nor have any idea,
where I lost, or
if I ever had, ID.
Applied in Idaho or Chicago--
last week...could be a year ago.
Psychedelic timetravel engineer,
coma hovers ever near
mumblety-peg ceiling fan.
Vietnam vet. Lost fingers to a freight
out in Texarkana,
back when Ford ran the show.
Stink on me now
like the Nixon pardon.
Worse a clown than when the flag
bopped Gerry on the bean.
Wino asleep in a waiting room,
in a dream being seen.
awaiting the weave of his doom;
sweatshirt stiff with dried fluid,
torn jeans, ragged boots,
bozo lips ochre from sterno--no,
I do not know, nor have any idea,
where I lost, or
if I ever had, ID.
Applied in Idaho or Chicago--
last week...could be a year ago.
Psychedelic timetravel engineer,
coma hovers ever near
mumblety-peg ceiling fan.
out in Texarkana,
back when Ford ran the show.
Stink on me now
like the Nixon pardon.
Worse a clown than when the flag
bopped Gerry on the bean.
Wino asleep in a waiting room,
in a dream being seen.