Issue 8
September 2001
Kristopher Ewald
Bourbon Bible Church
A double shot of my baby's love
during happy hour is a religious experience like none other.
Not even Reverend Beam’s soothing blend
of Canadian humor and Bible belt sour mash
can hold a candle to my chick’s power.
The way she strokes my thigh
during Sunday service, as we drown
in yet another lecture about sex outside of the walls
of marital confinement, leaves my head stiff.
Last night, I was at the bar,
on a spiritual rant,
defending my upright Christian beliefs.
When the bartender with his flaming red hair
Was amused by my drunken clarity.
He asked, “where do you attend service at son?”
I said, “the Bourbon Bible Church,” proudly boasting.
He just laughed a devilish laugh
and served me, yet another shot of Jim Beam
with a most sinister grin.
He was obviously jealous of my dedication to the church.
Rare Beauty
All the beautiful ones
are trapped in undesirable bodies,
which they hate.
And what do we do?
Force-feed them a fatal shake
of Cosmo, Vogue and Victoria Secret
whipped around in a benign blender
of unsurpassed, yet delicate superficiality.Sure I secretly sleep with the latest Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog
under my pillow night after night but I’m a sensitive guy –
I mean I’ve fucked fat chicks before; or doesn’t that qualify?
It’s no wonder so many teenage girls hang out at the local coffeehouses.
Certainly it couldn’t be for the faux chic ambiance?
Drinking three double lattes during an open lunch curbs the appetite,
someone told me they’re teaching that in junior high health classes these days –
gotta cut down class size somehow!
Then it hit me the other day,
as I slammed on my brakes to avoid ramming into the robust back end of a city bus.
When I finally channeled my vision from the petite princess,
driving her compact car in the narrow lane next me, back to the bus;
I just slumped over in shameful regret.
Who would have ever thought
that TARTA could serve as a billboard of social conscience?
But there it was in haunting boldface print staring back at me:
“Fear of Fat: Some women don’t just diet, they die.”
“Universally, Almost”
Old West End,
political rhetoric runs rampant,
social consciousness
capped under a gilded cathedral steeple.Dirty dark-skinned wino,
sitting on the front steps
this is not your home;
this is an universal house of God!-
bums need not apply.Revitalization?
Nothing more than a trivial white suburbanite word
that severely lacks results.Urban dwellers just board
your city-provided bus and
bear your dead, happy face.You people, you Mad Dog slinging lunatics
were never meant to cross our tower’s ivory truss to drink
Jesus’ blood from our golden chalice anyway.
Our wine’s worth a hell of a lot more than
some panhandler’s pocket change;
it’s sacred for chrissake!
Fakin’ It
Three-dollar cover charge,
cheap cigar smoke,
door man with scotch on his breath,
wearing khakis not for comfort-
but for the shear distinction of class.I knew immediately this place was too tragically hip
for a cat like me because it was called a “hall,”
not a “club” or a “café” or a “theatre,” but a “hall.”The Afro-Rican Ensemble was smokin’ that night
but the usual sports bar suspects were too busy discussing betting lines
to even notice the soulful connection between the two conga players
as they pat the slender twentysomething waitress on the ass
to whisper in her ear, “how’s bout another round of ales sweetheart?”Why aren’t they mesmerized by the cover of an old Wayne Shorter tune
like they are by that poor girl’s ass?
Easy! Ass gazing requires no thought process.
god is jazz that complicated?I felt the music much more easily than
I could have felt that waitress’ ass –
the music didn’t even require $100 plus tip to be held.