meditations of a jerk

Something about being this half Russian
with a clear glass of tea that looks radioactive
and wearing black cowboy boots
with stolen pants
and a long coat
makes me feel at odds with the American placement
of sensibility.

From what I found on the ground
outside the 7-11
I could form stories about the ignorance
of people who have never crafted a style
or a device.

They used to mock me unless I was drunk.

Whatever is clever.

I'm sure also that you've been thrown on the dirt
a couple of times
and had to accept this with grace and a smirk
to avoid the knives that could snap open in a sliver of dead silver.

Could have been me too, maybe for the better or the worse.

All I remember of LA
are things like drug addicts trying to jump me outside of questionable establishments
when all I wanted was a fine beer
or just a secret smile
that wound up being controlled by the insane animal sentiments
of hooligans leaping out of dying cars.

I should smile for all that I have survived
but it nags at me
from the cheap unfeeling floor
to the expansive harbor in bloody curfew sunset
where the oil ships lurch out like sick bellies or old rusted kitchens
trying to cleave across all that mercury beauty known as a sea,
which is where I would reside.