Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Drunk on a Sunday Night

All the boys who love their city,
all the gals who love hometown,
all swimming away with vast complications,
all looking for something to turn them upside down.

There's a galley on Main Street,
the street Hemingway spoke of all lit up,
and in it are various styles and dimensions,
while the lights hurriedly blink on for fear of the cup.

The cup is the one in the hairy man's hands,
that he doesn't jingle but sits next to him.
While he works his way through palm frond baskets,
Making things as pretty as the galley's lights on dim.

And you walk farther or closer and see the gay bar,
where six foot transvestites hang around the entrance,
And past them are closed shops with the neon all on off.
Where main street dies at night for the ice cream stands.

Across the way is a shop that sells communist carry ons,
to capitalists on the long main street.
It was there that I bought a green hat emblazoned
with an offensive star for to greet.

Further and closer and you come upon the establishment
of the greatest capitalist singer that ever lived,
His name is Jimmy Buffet, the place is Margaritaville,
and in there they card. What a bitch.

So go on up and across the way again,
where a man is telling dirty jokes for a dollar,
he says “cunts” loud enough for the kids to hear,
daddy gets indignant and pops his collar.

On and on, far, far away,
from the southernmost this and the southernmost that,
less than a block from the Southernmost Point,
I scared the golf-cart riding family of fat.

Get on toward the setting sun,
the bars get smaller and smaller,
'til you come unto the smallest one,
where they sell you drinks that get taller and taller.

Beyond that a ways before the sandal shop,
everything gets too real,
the homeless smoke cigarettes like it's going to kill them,
instead of giving back life some zeal.

The whole world dies for a block or two,
before you get to see redemption,
the place is called Mallory Square,
and there life starts to feel worth a mention.

This is one conch's story of life and death,
composed on a Monday morning.
As it's being written a storm blows in,
full of lightning and one thunder warning.

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