Posted in Antarctica

Affidavit

Saturday, day nine
work six days per week
rest on the Sabbath
even here
in the most heathen of places.
Saturday night out on the town
four bars and at least two parties.

The Acey Deucey most popular
spoken of as “ The Doocee”
transplanted from any small town anywhere
most frequent habitat the Mid West or South.

Jukebox. Check.
Pool table. Check.
Foos ball. Check.
Smokey. Check.
Poorly lit. Check.
Rednecks. Check.

Long, thin, low ceilinged
elbows glued to counter
thrust back butts overhang stools
what the fuck are you looking at stares.
eyes front.
“Bud, Stroh’s, Miller.” No other conversation.

The first full week of the season
the first night all bars are open.
In ‘The Doocee’ on opening night. 12 fights
shore patrol is busy.

On Monday morning at Captain’s Mast
no one knows nothing
or heard
only saw distantly.

“ Some dude jumped the pool queue
some dude crashed the Jukebox
some dude squeezed some chick’s butt
some dude kicked a table over.’’
Witness after witness.

The captain said
“ boy when this guy Some Dude shows up
is he for it.”

For the back story click Backstage

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Author:

Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.

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