POEM OF THE DAY
SHIT HAPPENS for a former friend
Shit happens.
The blue angel rides down your door
and parks his Harley where your easy chair
used to be.
The morning after,
his blue dyed Marlon Brando leathers,
dropped in your bedroom,
fit perfectly,
even the boots, under the usual
loafers, khakis, and flannel.
No matter how close you shave
you can’t scrape that blue asshole’s shadow
off your mirror face.
The smell of Aqua Velva is everywhere.
Shit happens.
The blue angel’s Zippo lighter, just like Dad’s,
lies beside your pack of Camel filters.
The phone rings.
It’s the blue angel’s girlfriend.
You hit the street.
You stop at the liquor mart instead of Citgo.
The angel’s Harley drinks only whisky
and prefers scotch.
Shit happens.
You end up at the dive bar.
The blue angel hustles pool,
sucking on pieces of dry ice
he takes from the pockets
of his Freon cooled jacket.
The smoke curls from his lips.
The haze makes his moves seem mystic.
Chased with a shot,
it tastes like wisdom.
The chill sweat on your brow
would yield 180 proof.
The blue angel is not in business
for your health.
Shit happens.
The blue angel thinks your wife is a dried up old cunt.
That’s all right, he prefers the dry entry.
And, he says,
women just love his refrigerated glass prick.
Shit happens.
The blue angel thinks of all the lonesome cunt
all over the world.
Too bad.
He just can’t get to it all in time.
Shit happens.
The blue angel goes to the jukebox
for another shot of Johnny Cash
with an Elvis chaser.
The blue angel is not in business
for your health.
When the blue angel rocks, you gonna roll.
Roll dem bones.
Shit happens.
Dana Pattillo
PoD 96
8:09:23 PM 
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