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my favorite bartender

lyle has three semesters
of an entomology degree
and half a right arm
still missing somewhere
in vietnam.
the first afternoon
i walked into southport
he slid me a bottle
of wild turkey.
take a tug chief,
helps keep the balls
above water level.
after i told him
i was a parole officer
he told me about his son
doing a boxcared fifty up in animosa
for cooking meth
and slinging it
to an undercover.
he said
the kid took after his mom
who went infinity
on crack cocaine
a long time back.
then lyle took a long bolt
and told me how
that kind of stuff
is all duck spit
and general dry tears
of the cicada,
how the machine hums,
constantly scheming for us
and it takes its share,
but he's got his arm
and it still flips women like pancakes
what for he can
mount them from behind.
i'm not
cut out
for friends,
but he's one of the few  
that's kept his magic
during this general deterioration
and knowing
he's out there

15 Feb 07

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(86 more poems by this author)

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Good poem. I would like to be sitting at Lyle's bar right now.
 — stout

Justin you certainly know how to grab the reader's attention, some great work in here
Not all that keen on L31 to L37
The last 3 stanzas can just about stand up by themselves, if you ever decide you don't want them anymore, i will give em a good home.
Congrats on getting some of  your poems published.
F***ing smartass. ;)
 — unknown