With Fuzzy Balls

“Remember when we fucked?”
asked the clown
as she spat in my face.
tongue-tied and stumbling backwards
I unzipped my pants to reveal
nothing

she just stared blankly
wiped the clown make-up from her face and laughed
“only in America” she quoted
while undressing layer by layer
until all that was left was
a shadow and shoes
high-heeled shoes, pink
with fuzzy balls

By Brian Feist

A Day

“You know the way you smell in the morning? That’s how I feel.”
The man was saying into his cell phone as he dug in his pocket for a quarter.
Producing two shiny prizes he put them in the machine and pulled the handle, then with out removing the phone from his ear (using his elbow to hold the spring-loaded door down) he pulled out a newspaper.
“No, no I don’t need any of that,” he continued to someone, somewhere else.
Opening the paper in a flourish he eyes darted back and forth across the page,
“Here it is,” he suddenly blurts out, and almost drops the phone.

by Brian Feist

In A Motel in Hayward, California

What is the point of pain
if it doesn’t teach one how to live
What is the point of emotion
if it doesn’t teach you about yourself
the only point of losing is to learn how to win
fucking, sucking, smoking, joking
are all games to learn about the value of love
the importance of those around you

We hate only to learn the value of distance
the pain of faith and belief
God foresaketh thee to a wilderness of empathy

Everything is battle
a game of winners and losers
wandering through the field unequipped, untrained, and unprepared

By Brian Feist