at the upside down plaza,
renting out the jukebox-
fuzzy bended dollar bills
for ramones and david allan coe.
a band took the dance floor-
really bad drunk punk music,
like the dead dragged from angry agoraphobic tombs.
screeching and bobbing,
thrown at the remnants of anti-monarchists.
on my way to the beer man,
a brown headed brian and his
''I never forget a face.''
or that hair.
it was barely years ago,
we shared smokes and truth or dare,
quiet late summer afternoons.
empty apartment, no friends, no roommates.
passing in and between-two lives.
memory loosely muzzled.
then slammed to the forehead by a beer run for moshers.
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