LOOKING FOR A WILD BEER IN AMERICA The white mans grandpa white hair Coming out of his ears and nose, His map of the Rio Grande mug, His red neck, told me, instinctively, That his liver might be A weak fist in his gut, His spit wad eyes, Bushy eyebrows And wheezing inhale, Told me that there must be A hospital bed at his house, Or at his apartment, Or mothers house, Under a Led Zeppelin poster And I knew that I got it just right, When I turned off of the 99, Looking for a wild beer in America, Just a few minutes from Visalia I rumbled over a half dirt road To get to that bar- I was in America, loving every sip. Every crushed Cig And America talks to me, Through the blue collar song it sings, I was sitting on a bar stool Waiting for someone To direct me to the kitchen, Or back to my Country Which is U.S.A. And when the room thickened with Door shadows and weak light bulbs Started to haunt the joint, I knew that nothing I say on this day, Above this bottle of Bud Will ever mean a God damned thing To the Bartender with a Miss Kitty mole, Nothing to Jack with a motorcycle grin, Or to the man who said, with a beer And a cigarette smile “dat der sports car Belongs to dat dar Mesican?” © John Martinez 2013 All Rights Reserved
Posted on: Sat, 06 Jul 2013 05:49:01 +0000
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