Flies crawl over my table and rain-soaked jacket
Dismal, dirty bugs
Dropping shit and disease on everything
They crawl closer to me
As if they want proof, I’m writing about them only
I imagine them as great, opportunistic hunters,
And I, the only prey of opportunity
All this far more romantic a notion than that of the reality…
I simply have the nights dirt on my hands and the kitchen’s smells on my clothes.
Dismal, dirty bugs!
And yet, amusing enough to be morbidly interesting.
Originally written Oct 27, 1997 (very early in the morning)
From my Madrid files on the Pub Storytellers nights. Where an eclectic group of expats, troubadours, and assorted, sodden wordsmiths gathered twice a week to share a few pints, tell many tall tales, and lessen our loneliness at our favorite Irish Pub in Madrid, Spain, back in 1997-98. I kept my scribbles from these nights and the poems that grew out of the stories I told. This is the first time I’ve ever published these. I hope you enjoy them.