driving past Boogie Records, the
head shop, the People's Coop,
we were firebombing Vietnam,
burning Detroit, and your roommate,
a Navy rat who eavesdropped
Cuban radio for plots to overthrow
America, you drove to crazy
Haberman's wedding, Pressley rolled
joints while you held the wheel, eyeballed
the centerline in gas fumes.
You stopped off at Hamtramck,
Margie's gypsy Polish bungalow
so they could fuck while you drank Schlitz
tallboys and ate fried pickles and
drowned your head in the sink.
Wedding day was sweltering.
You drank gin and tonics with rich
strangers at Crazy Haberman's
reception, sweating off the beer
and fried pickles and driving buckets
of balls into the depths of the
Birmingham Hills Country Club,
the migraine taking over, the taste
of silver on your tongue, stoned on
hash when Crazy Pete snuck out
behind the kitchen, then Crazy
Pete's father-in-law grilled you--
"What are you doing with your lives?"
and Crazy Pete was thinking Fuck
man, I'm just gonna get fucking
stoned and make love to your daughter
and laughing that crazy-assed laugh
that made you think, shit man, Birmingham
fucking Hills, this guy's fucking
looney tunes, and Pressley thinkin'
I don't know and you were thinking
When did I learn Bolshevik? When
did I become a leper? When did I
turn into Tiresias? stirring the burning
gristle of chickens grilling on the spit,
wielding swords of flaming Greek cheese
in the night, pouring libations, gin,
champagne, Asti, spouting apostate
invectives, proselytizing
to the checkered trousered golfers,
cursing the bastard sons of Ford
and Chevrolet, all the captains
of industry, and when the Greek
boys serving the drinks hauled you
behind Pressler's bug and kicked
and punched your ribs till the fire
raged and emptied your stomach
and lungs, you barked like Cerberus
at the country club gates, the
ancient fireworks exploding
overhead, ashes dying in
punk.
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