Dammit, Market Street!
Your cruel and beautiful bricks rolfing my discounted espadrilles right through to the sagging arches of my 10W flippers,
from the theater to the park
in an Asheville laughable mini block.
Damn you, street, why do your brick-alive echoes
amplify the caterwauling, cement-handed hacks
clunking great clumps of the keys of innocent pianos?
(I get it, dudes- you and Billy Joel are having sex with a mixed drink)
Lap it up, tourons.
Oh, hell, the meat market disco that I never went to has swirled down the sandy vortex of the hourglass to oblivion and up popped a restaurant that serves…
say, Caballero Roberto-
what is a Brazilian Steak, anyhoo?
To the corner bar! Remedy the offense to my nostalgic senses
with a rootin, tootin, highfalutin attack on the cranial
if not the cerebral, but
Who concocts cocktails and says she’s a craft mixologist reinventing booze, for Godsakes? Of course you’ve overserved me, but it’s the bill that makes me sick-
Sick of the stumbly trip bricks playing their Market Street tricks
and sending me down for a sloppy, dirty brick kiss that loosens a tooth
a hint of vermouth, drowning the flower of my youth.
Victor Jizzly, poet philosopher