At Byron Barous off Clark street
They asked us to leave
after we’d been drinking there
for some time
and we did
for a little while
until Martin said we should go back in
and moon the bartender
which he did
Too low and half-assed
i said
like this, you moron
I climbed up on a stool
got my pants down, my underwear down
bent over with my ass level to the bar
right where the bastard had to see it
then lost my balance
fell over, stool and all
with my bare ass onto
that ancient peanut shell, dust bunny, tumble weedium
splinter riddled, nail exposed, tar & gum filled cracked bare-board floor
with its hundred year old filth
trod upon by rebels and convicts and sailors with syphilis
soldiers on AWOL, slumming fratboys, drunken Irish — like Martin
and the poets who don’t write
and the writers who never say
what they mean
From across the bar i could hear Martin laughing
braying like an asshole
and the bartender
who had missed it all
telling us to leave
all over again
as i struggled to join
my belt and buttons
clutching dignity
from the jaws
of a bad moon rising.
—Larry Crist
For copy of actual issue, go to https://www.realchangenews.org/2007/02/07/feb-7-2007-entire-issue