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The ineffable glow
of his black stares,
cut through the room,
aching for affirmation.
His extremities throb-
mission set by
self-destiny, programmed
for tits and liquor-
begging the place for the
light to shine
on his next victim.
Day in, day out,
he purges his body,
maintain constant
his impure symmetry.
Like a dreadful banner,
he covers the crowd –
his effulgence galloping
with the arrogance of
some war-
illicit thoughts of
bedroom nights full
of naked female
progeny.
Saddled,
full of luck,
the rubbers in his pocket
begin to warm-
not a single bite.
From a distance,
with a white Russian in hand,
I catch his stare-
music pounding ear drums-
returning it,
declaring my threat.
As I leave the lounge
with a woman on each arm,
I reach into my pocket for a few bucks,
enough to tip the bartender for our drinks.
Stepping out side the door,
I turn back, giving the gentleman
one last glance-
wishing him luck.
26 of 31 - 1/10
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"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead." — Charles Bukowski
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Non-Intellectual
