“ye rustic birthday”

the fury of the screaming


it tidal waved over

my tiki torched head
I was a dead man with

one heavy price to

be paid.

the juke jumped,

the legs twisted,

an old man with

a respirator and

a four-legged cane

rolled about 
halfway in

in time to catch

all the good stuff.

a gold-plated badge

of honesty showed

only halfway out

of the blazers.

we all mobbed tables

of food, drink, desperately.

”I got the family

a new station wagon frank!”

the conversations were

all as wholesome as

a mile of astro turf.

some of the wives

felt as if they were

in an exotic Elvis movie.

and the men went,”HAW,HAW!!”

and the football game

was on twelve different

t.v. sets.

one amazon warrior of

a bartendress trotted,

and had all the hounds

lapping up puddles

five bills at a time.

another one,
whose simple name

I forgot

strode the killing floor,


she was glad the game 

was ending and the real

drinkers were coming

out of their coffins.

her hair was short, blonde,

and her eyes were beady 

and doll-like.

all the wives hated her,

and the husbands

made her trot

across the floor

twenty overworked

and underpaid bills

at a time.

the host of the party

wobbled a little more

every fifteen minutes,

and I caught a ride home

with him and the miss’s.

she drove.

they sent me into the door

with a packet of 
macaroni and cheese.

happy birthday, frank.

copywrite: jeremy szuder


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