Here's another little piece I don't remember writing. After I quit drinking, I experienced an explosion of poems and prose. This is one of those pieces:
She’s quick. She’s quirk.
I grant you that. I grunt
you. She’s intense. She’s insane.
It's difficult to read because of all the serifs. I shot the serif. Veranda
was invented to address those problems.
I thought a veranda was what you swing on. Where you swung. Hung.
A dress, those problems. Sure,
this is cute, is cut, sure is this.
Another drink. An other
drink. Barfender. Barfly.
Good old Buk. Puke. Good old Veranda. And Jughead.
Little brown. Nose. Goddamnit, bartender, give me an other drink,
a think, a thought, perhaps mayhap perchance a draught, caught in, that is, a
chance, another chance, to dance, and prance the night away. Jesus, it never stops. The music, the noise, it never goes
away. Awry. I never stop.
Or drop. Go plop. Bebop, I-Hop, Dew Drop Inn, Bob
Inn, and out. Twist and shout. Quest about.
Rounda-, round one, and lost.
Round, too. Round tuit. Three blind vice. Blind drunk.
It never ends. I’ll never see you
again. Or anything else. Garcon! Johnny Garcon.