Tuesday, February 16, 2016

poem of the day 02.16.16


duncan is running around the kettle bar
with his sister olive
screaming and yelling
while people are eating bar food
or starting in early on the day’s drunk
duncan is maybe three but still looks vacant
olive is pushing two at best
and has a set of pipes on her
that could raise the damned
there are no other children in the bar
because it’s a bar
duncan’s old man is your garden variety domestic asshole
with his receding hairline and dad gut
his sculpted man boobs
under an ugly maroon v-neck sweater
with tufts of chest hair coming out
he apologies to my wife and i
when duncan and olive repeatedly smack into our table
but he doesn’t mean it
because we reek of childlessness and other malaises
because his america counts more than mine
dad is enjoying his stolen afternoon beer too much
to worry about duncan and olive
killing other people’s time
he’s too caught up in the entitlement of being a parent
at the turn of the twenty-first century
praising his children
for what used to garner an ass whooping
duncan’s mom is a beast of a woman too
who wears the wounds of a war
of knocking out two kids in under four years
on her soulless stomach
i think she has diamonds
embedded into her glasses frame
for that extra douche bag oomph
and somewhere on her fat dego ass
i’m willing to bet
is a faded tattoo of a beloved cartoon character
she got at the beach
before duncan and olive were a drunken mistake
in the gleam of her eye
she thinks naming her children
duncan and olive
makes them more than the common
screaming creeps they are
mom had been carrying olive’s dirty diaper for fifteen minutes
until she set it down on the table next to us
blue and white and brown ball
of non-biodegradable plastic
a table someone else will eventually eat/drink on
she doesn’t care
because duncan and olive are so precious
their shit doesn’t stink
they’re the zenith of what she’ll accomplish in this world
ignorance that she’ll pass on
like family jewels and disease
boutique named monsters free to run around a bar
screaming and yelling
and raising hell on a monday afternoon
where we are all captives to this mundane madness
that gets passed around these days
under the guise of precocious ingenuity
duncan in his rookie-of-the-year t-shirt
olive in her plaid dress
smacking their heads off the worn bar and laughing
the little philistine prince and princess of bay ridge
with ketchup stained faces
from french fries flung on the bar floor
like nut shells and sawdust
little landmines we’ll try not to slide in
as we forgo another beer
and get up to leave
to duncan screaming bloody murder
to an old hootie and the blowfish song
as olive prat falls and farts
and our proud patriotic parents
order another round.


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