The Slugman of Herbert Street – Part II

October 25, 2012

Nothing gnaws at the spirit like loneliness.
Nothing drips like a lonely Slugman does.

The Slugman walks down Herbert Street
dripping from his glans and sluggy teet.

I don’t miss those hippies.
I don’t miss their banjoes
or shoeless toes.
I don’t miss being awoken
from my daily doze.

I finally have time to look at me
and see whatever it is that I’ll see.
What
is a Slugman?
Under all the drip
what is me?

He holds out his hand and lets a drip rip.
It streams from his glans and onto his hip.

Good show!
I don’t need to drip on hippies.
It’s just as much fun
to cover myself in drippy.

Winter comes quickly.
Herbert Street is slippery
and travelers fall quickly
and the drunks who wander from Richardson’s bar
looking for their drip-covered car
curse the Slugman when they slip in his drip.

“Damn you, Natty Bones!
“Leave my poor car alone.”

Christmas Eve never brings Natty Bones relief.
He fills his stocking with drippy
and tops it off with dry leaves
and small spiders
and calls it Drip Pudding
and feasts
alone, of course
and walks to St. Yves
down the street.

Father Pip’s on the stoop
and won’t let him in.
“Not until you wipe that drip from your chin,
you perverted Slugmin.”
Natty wipes his drip and grins.
“Merry Christmas, Father Pip.”
And without warning, he covers Pip
in freezing cold, milky white drip.

“Looks like you’re having a white Christmas, Pip,”
Natty says as he shakes the rest of the drip from his tip.

A wintry wind blows and freezes the drip to Pip.
“Damn you, Natty! Damn the whole Slugman race!
“Now I have to do Christmas Mass
“with drippy stuck to my face.
“Are you coming in, Natty, you ass?”

Natty says, “I’ll pass.
“I don’t like Mass.
“I’m just here for the snacks.”

He grabs the communion basket with his sluggy paw
and shoves each wafer into his drippy maw.
“Damn you, Natty! Did you eat them all?
“Those are for Mass. What gaul!”

Time passes, as it does.
The Slugman thinks about things
like the way Herbert Street was.
And King Hippie and that hippie baby
who he covered in drippy
and how maybe, in another life, just maybe
they could live in drip-free harmony.

No way!

Natty Bones drips into his hands
as he watches the Times Square ball drop.
On Valentine’s Day lovers leave the Richardson tipsy
and slip in his drippy white slop.

The Slugman drips as the leaves on the trees near St. Yves turn a splendid green.

He tries to drip on April Fool’s Day
but no.
No?
There’s no flow.
There’s no drip dripping from my drip spout!

He can’t begin to explain this drip drought.
A sick April’s Fool’s joke
that must be what it’s about.
Tomorrow I’ll be dripping like mad, no doubt.

Time passes
as it does.
April 2 comes
and goes
and there’s
still.
No.
Flow.

Woah.

I can’t even do the one thing Slugmen were put on earth to do.

If I can’t drip, I am no longer a Slugman.

I am only a man.

He looks at his glans
He looks at his hands.
They’re both bone dry.
The man who used to be a Slugman
curls into a dry ball
and begins to cry.

Tags:

.............................................

Comments are closed.