Joey Cloudy online

  True Bromance 

He was my first hipster hat on his silver head, harmonica 

in hand 2002, 50 year old Mike on the mic 

Clay man takes the stage at the Velvet Hookah, 

a genuine too cool for Sunday school house rocking stray cat 

scatting our grateful dead white and blues period. 

This is not another elegy or a little death song. 

This is a poem for the living beyond the banal expectations 

Of our urbane existence in legendary leagues beneath genteel men. 

Drunken brawls in Japanese bars my man 

Still silky smooth talks his way out of a Tokyo jail 

Milo mythic monster rockstar poet reading travelogues 

That are unusually lost as luggage in transition. 

In resurrected Dresden bar where a wall and the old city 

Are now ashen ghost historical markers of madmen. 

Bitta zien halt mien hier! 

This is an inside joke we share 

The sick humour explaining why this is the only phrase 

In German that I know. 

And who was it that led the drunken charge 

out of a Naples villa 

across the orange groove 

into the Mediterranean darkness 

an all American knight errant? 

But, that was not a lance that you held 

nor a dragon that you saw, no, not even a windmill. 

That is your cock in your hand 

and that is the Coliseum you’re pissing on tonight, 

while you graffiti the ancient stones simultaneously 

mark your territory with all the patriotic swagger 

of astronauts planting old glory on the moon. 

And even though you and I both know 

This time it wasn’t Milo. Still, it might have been. 

But, that’s neither here nor there, 

you see you’re not in Spain 

you’re in Italy old friend. 

Go home Milo, 

you’re drunk daddy o. 

And hit me with one more poem.