wearing a dress shirt and a bow tie;
he wouldn’t stop barking at me, I warned
him to leave me alone, but he didn’t listen.
another time I punched a man with a
lighter in my hand and the sparks flew
right off of his face, it was quite a sight;
this was after he looked at me and said:
“look at you, what the fuck are you going
to do? look at y…” but he didn’t get to finish.
more recently, I broke a man’s front teeth
in a crowded pool hall bar, after he got angry
that me and my friend had put our pints on
“HIS” table; again, there was a warning, more
than once, but he didn’t listen either. they all
looked at me and saw a very tall, very skinny
man; once wearing a bow tie, another time
drunk off my ass, and another time with long
hair and bangs; but what they didn’t see was
the madness, the apathy, and the chaos behind
the eyes, or know that I can become unhinged
at a moment’s notice and that I always throw
the first punch when that happens. plenty of
others have made that same mistake, and they
too have been met with fists. winning or losing
has never been a concern, but as I have gotten
older, I have tried to avoid putting myself in
these precarious situations, for my sake, and theirs.
About David Boski:
David Boski lives in Toronto: His poems have most recently appeared in: Under The Bleachers, Horror Sleaze Trash, Duane's Poetree, Winamop, Beatnik Cowboy, Rusty Truck: He has forthcoming chapbooks being released by Analog Submission Press and Holy&Intoxicated Publications later this year.
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