Saturday Night

Saturday Night Smoked cigarette butts in The cup of runny-mud-thick cold minestrone soup Half gone My inebriated head melts Into my numb hairless fingers, hang nails hung over from A sober week at the office Half a dream A purple man steals my silver soup spoon Right out of my nicotine-stained-green ten thumbs I got a ***** for a barmaid—she laughs So I leave the crack-in-the-wall greasy counter-ette And go outside, smoke Half a cigarette. Breezin’ through my liquid hair The late November-early December wind Half froze. My sixteen feet bend into the piss puddles I left last weekend at this same bar and grill Half green. A young girl—ten, maybe thirteen—winks a make-up-caked eye at me Or is it for the purple man who dropped my spoon Half full. Half way home. I got to take a leak, ****, I ain’t got no head, no eyes No skin, no time. I ain’t got no time to relieve my drunken rectum Half moon. The cracks in the cement get closer and closer No damn taxis around this cultured area Half a town. Another smoked cigarette falls down my throat and the Mucous puts it out. The purple man is Half yellow. A fire hydrant finds its way to kick me in the balls And my apartment is right over there, no lights on Half morning Stained sheets, stained from wet dreams, feel warm. The purple man leaves when I raise my thick head Half raised. I see my cocker spaniel. Slurpin’ up half a cup of Cold rainy-mud-thick minestrone soup. And I left the bathroom light Half on.