Butterfly; Crispy

No one mistook my 
father for a social-butterfly 
in the thirty-odd years 
I knew him. 

But if the droughts 

could be informative 

to the significance 

of what's precious 

I am indebted in 

some peculiar, uncanny 

way to his difficult, 

recalcitrant dispositions. 

All this to say: I'm glad 

he was an authentic prick 

instead of some shallow, dull, 

conformist waste of life -- 

of which I feel there are 

too fucking many in 

the world. 

So. 

I thought to dash some 

brandy into my schedule 

of intoxication 

and there was a customer 

in the store ahead of me. 

She had a child with her. 

The child came up to her waist. 

That's how old it was. 

It was old enough that it's nose 

was approximately one foot taller 

than where the woman's crispy 

vagina's entance was. 

The child made faces while 

the woman talked to the 

cashier, who was almost 

several feet taller than 

the child. 

The cashier was listening 

to the woman tell a story 

about how her employers 

required the employees 

to be given permission to 

use the bathroom and 

how much the woman 

was fed up with this 

and the cashier enthusiastically 

placated her until she finally 

paid for her things and 

left with the unfortunate child. 

Then I bought two tiny bottles of brandy. 

Then she gave me back a penny for change. 

I don't have a great deal 

outside the house to occupy 

my hours. I have no close friends

that invite me over to their house 

or to invite over to mine 

and I don't have girlfriend, 

although a few months a year, 

give or take, I am gratefully open 

to the idea of having a girlfriend: 

However, if a woman with the life-muscle 

to eject a small human from the caverns 

of her own anatomy can't find the resolve 

afterwards to negotiate the whims 

of her socially-oppressive superiors 

or at least find better remedies for her scratchy twat 

than pester and distract a part-time cashier 

in a liquor store, I will write a middling poem 

about her uncouth behavior 

so long as I'm not busy 

with anything important. 

Sometimes the door says: Ting-a-ling. 

****