True Story

true story, steven humphreys, poetry

Dreaming up

a true story of



and Saturday Nights

of a wanna be Marlboro man’s


who acted and looked the part

with his get up of

hat, boots, and shiny silver belt buckle

he couldn’t have acted the part any better

than a pro

pounding down Bud

Jack and Coke

and Weiner schnitzel chili covered hot dogs topped

with onions, of course

(his favorite at the time)

leaning up against the bar

holding it up

with a woman ten feet away

he only knew by first name

she was always in the same spot

he knew he’d always find her there

unless of course she couldn’t find a babysitter

for her ten kids

he had that gut feeling

she might be there

for him…


but, he didn’t do a gosh darned thing about it

except nod at her as he walked by to the men’s room

to take a…

then, the yelling and commotion started in a furious whirlwind

way over

at the other side of the bar

when you ADD a mental problem insanely jealous guy

To his way too flirty stupid ass girlfriend

(who wanted her honor defended)

you get


 an atomic explosion

of the third kind

like no one had ever seen

chairs, tables, and bottles flew

I ran over to lend a hand to my drunken friend

whose loud crude mouth

rightly got him knocked over a table

but, I didn’t know the real story

until everything was all done

So, I go after the guy

I get punched in my face

so fast


so hard


I saw stars flying through the air

on my way down like superman bouncing off the opposite wall of the room

funny, what nine beers and a couple shooters can do

to ya

my hat got knocked off

and I rested on my aching laurels

sitting there thinkin’

and rubbing my sore face

I knew then

it had to be time for a change


wear a mask like the phantom of the opera

for the rest of my life and talk with a slur


stay a bar fly on a country bar wall making a buzzing sound

until I got smeared all over the wall by a fly swatter


I turned into a bag of dusty old sun bleached bones

sucked up by tomorrow’s cleaning lady’s vacuum cleaner


wait till god appoints me to read poems to a serial killer I am locked in a cell with who I hand a barber’s straight razor to that I smuggled in the jailhouse

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