Five Points



In the low rectangular confines

of the bar,



I sat at a wobbling table

along a sweating extrusion

of brick wall,

hunched in a battered, wine-colored

bingo chair,

outlining my theories to my friend.



"The world is changing," I said, ashing into a warped aluminum

disk, "Some of us are too."



I crushed my cigarette

into the top of my hand

as proof. Baring incisors,

my friend guffawed.



We were the seediest

scumbags ever to crap

in a graveyard.



The only women we knew

were drunk and disturbed,

and smelled eternities

more alluring than yeast

and saltpeter,

our cheap urban stink.



We sat there tripping,

feeling alien strong,

knowing we'd be awake

for hours,

immune to the ill effects

of drinking.



Drifting back to the city,

we rode in his brown 80's Ranger

along the winding highway.



As the lights rose glittering

among the billboards and buildings,

the milk Georgia night

pulled smoke from our lungs,

away from the truck,



into more covert madness