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At the bar
another olive drops the crops
in thought bubbles clouding above his mind
he tips the bartender as pretender of man with integrity and exits the folds
tippie toeing past his own front door
pub news under his arm protection
as he walks the chalk outlines
to the corner whore
for the hour where his head
gets devoured
by the blank T.V. before him
a meditation on his complex sexual searching
purchasing fulfillment of an urge for self knowledge
should not be so wrong
yet the pleasure is measured by guilt not joy
and a martini one part honesty
one part slavery
drips from his ass
across a just laid tile floor
through a squeaky kitchen door
as he creeps upstairs to the hetero life
a lovely straight wife
he believes can do him no justice in bed
and pizza boxes
the door locks
the time tocks
he lives new meaning to
“no justice no peace”
1991
