’58 and ’98 Made Me Drink

by Steven J. Serafiani

The only way that I could
pump out words tonight was
put a couple slugs in my

See, sat down sober and
stared at sheet till
look up saw “Dharma Bums” and
“Bone Palace Ballet”; those
fucking ink jackals made
me secede to store to
spend my last greenbacks on
suds to slide back into

Goddamn, got Duke burning
now, got a buzz now
brimming baby, and got a
whole lot of
du du du du ding.

I’m weak for words. And
I wanna be heard, even
though I might not have
much to say ‘cept micro
prose columns about
booze, dames, dens and filter
Soon. Soon will come the
narrative meat. But

till my typewriter becomes a
till, I’ll bob my head, drink
swill and slide that carriage
like a fever mill.