In theory there is a possibility of perfect happiness:
To believe in the indestructible element within one, and not to strive towards it.
– Franz Kafka
Used to hang out with an Asian Gang.
A titty bar on Northwest Broadway
close up against Hung Far Low.
He was the only white guy in the place
Only old guy
only dude in the joint without a gun
on him. Grey buzzcut gleamed silver fluorescent
off pale thongs. Sad music.
First night he walked in
table was empty. Racked, chalked and
fully loaded.
They took him on
one gangster after another.
He talked a better game
than he shot.
But he always seemed to shoot just
a little better than the next guy.
They let him walk out
with some of their money.
He went back.
Of course.
Maybe it was the cheap drinks,
maybe the naked women
maybe the bad gamblers
maybe it was the money
but what he really enjoyed –
like going back into killer waves on the North Shore
too big too much almost killed him
the first time –
he really enjoyed
walking out under his own control
safely
still alive, sticking his hand
in the dragon’s mouth
and not getting burnt.
Didn’t talk business.
From what he could gather
we weren’t talking about drugs
nor extortion of local merchants.
Couple of dangerous times
first thought he might be
a cop. Or maybe just really stupid.
Bad luck to kill a crazy prospector.
A few of the boys
got into a shoot-out
out front over a parking space.
Then there was that weekend
in Port Townsend with Margarita,
the bar tender at the Calico Cat.
Ayeeee! Chihuahua!!.