I am stuck between Sweatro and Gingerman,
stuck out by the dumpsters, piss, and toothed butts,
scrubbing concrete for roaches, hands stung
out with brown shards of Michelob bottles
between shots and lines.
I am stuck in the batlamp, stuck in the felt,
stacked like quarters by the rail, waiting my turn
at the game, my turn at the trough,
hailing drinks like cabs, two fingered,
absolute and limed.
There was a girl there once,
and flickering. There was an eye
to an eye, a mocked dissection – yes,
a cutting – a splendid humbled nothing.
Yes, those nights bled fast,
slumped down to Campeche,
burrowed into beans and red rice.
Yes, before the fogs wore off,
before the graystones went gray,
before the foilman don’t like that,
out there in the dumpsters,
where I found a roach,
scarred my lip, spread glass,
spread lies and conjured a time
high in the weed of discard,
high in a nothing called mine.