cheese with

Jeff Branin

after all the talk about women and wars, the bass ale drained,
six pints of memories belched out/annihilate antique worms
on pine street, and one more adventure sizzles in the frostbite
nite--a visit to pat's steaks for a plied poet's feast.

"coachman, ninth street south to wharton. we're on a king's quest.
to be sure, you, yourself, may have quested for other grails
in other verse: atomic subs in a newport deli, meatball torpedo
bombards your id; or a balmhof bratwurst with a schnapps toast
ballad dawn. himmel, pogeybait smuggling in military school,
high altitude instant oatmeal and colombian on mt. washington
or, alas, that two a.m. breakfast a la ponzio's succor for
the great unlaid poet

ahhhhh BUT in the meat of pat's steaks, the drool and drip
of onions, cheese, there is no defeat. there is the sweet orgy
of fitzgerald, edward, and swinburne. even the real poor bums
can dance given free banquet. we pay two seventy for ours
as 3 a.m. lines up behind, and before us the serious counsel
of wealthy hangovers.

 

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