bartender beating breakbarrel backs
with burly hairknuckle fingers as he shoots shots
down spillcounter whiskey flings,
I try to find a jukebox full of truth but this
only has Songs of Rightness,
it keeps playing Hello Mortals, This Is Your God,
the same song the Book Holders keep grafting,
so I try to sit next to some fringe-maned lion who
talks of Science, and
he explains clumsiness to me, in
words larger than my mind, while I
weep into the whiskey puddles, watering them down
for tomorrow’s batch
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