By D.S. West
‘Memories are liars, and I’m sick of being lied to.’
Diogenes crams the rest of his crepe in his mouth,
makes a smacking sound and returns to the dance party,
adjusting his schlong in his surf green banana hammock.
The practice P.I. stabs her pen against her cheek,
frustrated— the button end, to retract her pen-point,
inner-life firearm. It’s an odd habit, like writing—
‘He was no help,’ she says, eyes closed, head bent,
rubbing small circles at the center her forehead.
The veteran detective, demoted to rookie for training,
spits chew, and juices, emptying his mouth for Techne,
to hear himself say, ‘He never is,’ before adding to his
emptied cheeks an appetizing de-veined cocktail shrimp,
pre-dipped in name-brand tartar by the hostess of the party,
wearing her lucky blue and ideal ivory-striped one piece,
consecrated by a luxury televangelist with legit psychokinetic
local bar credit with the head chef, oven set to triple seven,
oh, no, it’s nine; nine-ninety-nine buys, char char tapasia,
and the cinnabuns come out fresh, delicious, but structurally,
practically immediately out the oven, they come undone.
Fall apart. Still delicious, they aren’t… castles anymore.
They sleep under bridges and cry with mirrors. Want one?
‘Don’t you want this lovely mess?’ the beggar repeats,
again, to her latest, if it is to be believed, passersby—
‘Don’t you want this lovely mess?’ her hands out, a bowl,
not asking, forcing its contents, arms long, and locked,
offering delusional gifts, cinnabuns. Like my crazy lady,
I’ve digressed too far— the detectives are watching
Diogenes leave. The practice P.I. who transcribes asks
the first smart question, ‘What is it we’re looking into again?’
& the deceptive veteran, as he plops onto the nightclub couch,
riddled in strobe, grabs a drink off a passing tray, glass labeled,
Courtesy Hermes Catering, responds, of course, ‘Who cares,’
and, looking at his crossed, outstretched feet, he freely admits,
‘it’s becoming impossible for me to relax without first untying
and taking off my shoes. In public, even. Is this normal?’
That’s when Diogenes emerges, out the folds, the curtains,
holding his latest prize, dug up in the backyard like an ideal,
name-brand bbq drumstick. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere!’
D.S. West is a writer, artist, and hopelessly lost pedestrian, presently hopelessly lost in sunny Boulder, CO. A list of his publishing credits is available at icexv.wordpress.com.