The East Village

Jen Coleman & Dave Hart


 My friend Icky B is nourished by the glow
 running like a river through tissue, muscle or bone.
 Give this drunk a tin cup and he and Jim Beam
 don't need your point of view.

 But the whisky she's a risky destination,
 and yet another beer truck lurks around  Icky B.
 He1s losing everything around his arms.

 Undocumented hazmat, baby, hauled vessels,
 a shot-and-beer man ends up in a drastic emergency drunk tank,
 a lack of other options built only for drunks.

 Icky fronts a boiling teen-ager honky tonk band.
 He brought his suit to the pawn shop,
 baring his skin honey spread cloth of an ass.

 Icky got drunk from touching a hot few crotches,
 exposed, woke up in an Armistice Day blizzard.
 Minnesota  burn shock, Icky stands among the dead drunk
 in the dead of winter, hops on one foot in the outlying broccoli fields.

 Icky's the color of the third degree,
 a rambunctious smirk stapled in place.
 The fluid in his blister is from Middle America.
 He'll get drunk, fall down, and raise hell in your town.