Herr Doctor

Kitchen-counter table, gouged.
Shared pitcher we surround.
Officer shoves through Tokyo crowd.
I follow him through the thick
with my eyes and land on girl,
Gamine Girl near Satyrs and Centaur.

I go all Tex Avery: “Hello, Nurse!”
The return gaze with green aggression.
I guess I knew her before beer
(shared pitcher we surround).
She clears the Satyrs and Centaur,
though they snort and spit,
and she bounces over acrobatically,
bow, arrow, and all.
“Hello, Herr Doctor!” she must say.

“Ah, hello, Gamine Girl. What ails you this eve?”
“I hold sobriety in too high a regard.”
“Fair, fair. Mean, and fair,” say I.
“Consider these: Have you touched the ever?
The nether and dark? Beyond there are blues
and blacks and greys.
I’m afraid, my dear, you need different
eyes to see in that light.”
“Unfortunately, I fear for my fair figure,
my disposition, my long term goals.”
“It takes bold strides to embark at first,
a godsped ship, like Noah’s Ark.
But as you go and brave the waves,
effervesce the brine
and feed from fish,
it starts to go down more easily.
More easily, it goes down.”

“Very well, Herr Doctor,” she says.
“You seem to have been born from
the line of Dionysus
in your gait and your horns
and the way you share this pitcher we surround.
I would be a fool to ignore your diagnosis.
To dishonor your prescribed cure could
be called

“Quite right,” I say. “Quite right.
Very well. Let us step into the theater
and there we might be able to demonstrate
to my students here how the operation is done.
Step away, lads. Step away from this
shared pitcher we surround.
Where we go, we draw the line
between logic and magick,
religion and church,
the Species and Order of animals
and the hierarchy of Spirit Creatures.
And blessed are we who do God’s Work,
for we get laid the most.”
And then we took shots and got fucked up.

(From September 2015)

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