Monologue #5 Poem by RIC BASTASA

they will read.
these bald men, with suspenders for their eggs.
these bearded men who smell like dry soil from the desert.
do you know that smell?
i know.
they will wonder, what is this nitwit trying to say?
a mole. a transformation. into a rock, a haven for scorpions.
they will put their pointing finger to their chins.
silence.
contemplation.
dim lights.
beer. so much beer to fill their brains with.
foam.
i am waiting. i am famous now. they are making me the object
of their discussion.
but it will be hurting, they will bombard me with their own
shortcomings.
how they fail. how they stumble in their pride.
they dig their foxholes for defenses.
their children do not know their names.
their mothers are still looking for their
umbilical cords.
for a while they will be drunk
some will dance naked, and their bodies are not good to look at.
ugly.
i vomit. i make the room smell like
the manger where the famous baby was born.
this the place for a beginning.
i do wish them dead. they are needed.
the world will be horrible without them.
i am shaken.
and finally i arrive at the conclusion
that after all, with all of them,
all drunk and lost and
hurting,

life is still worth living.