The Polack
I am a long way from home,
seven hundred miles removed
from the boiled cabbage smell
of an ill lit corner tavern
with Okocim on tap and a
bartender who answers to “Ski”.
I am two decades beyond
Polka Saturday night
at the St. Casimir rec hall,
tackle football at Pulaski Park,
the taste of a fresh perogi
served by a thick-waisted
woman wearing one sock.
out here where I am now,
Polacks exist as abstractions,
a fucked-up comedic archetype
known to go crazy when challenged
to piss in the corner of a round room,
rumored to change light bulbs in crews
numbering no less than a hundred.
I can imagine THE POLACK
as a problematic tarot card
depicting a blind-folded man
stepping off a steep cliff,
the tarot reader gasping as
the card is laid down, saying
“oh my! you’re about to do something
very fucking stupid in the near future.”
I carry the outline of Poland
tattooed on my shoulder,
hoping the boys under the banner
of the drunken warbird can defend
their border this next half century.
and when I defy established logic
as I sometimes must, I point to
the tattoo as justification.
exiled now, this Polish Mafia of one,
where once were many, now are none,
every round room remains dry,
every light bulb dim,
and even the Polish festival
back home just outside Chicago
is currently celebrated by Mexicans.
Horror Sleaze Trash 