Alan Catlin

Falling Down Drunk Sex Maniac

was her tribal name tribal nickname,
The Tribe being an aging biker gang
out of San Berdoo loosely affiliated
with the Hell’s Angels. It was the name
she adopted, or had bestowed on her, 
after a stretch on a locked-in ward,
necessitated by a week’s long orgy 
of bad acid, peyote buttons and 
a skag overdose that left her a mental
cripple for months until the flashbacks
abated, weighed down by so many
psychotropic drugs she could barely move.
“My festival name, before the bad stuff
came down, was Zephyr Breeze Free Love
Smoke of Many Dreams. 
Ever see the Woodstock movie?  
I’m the naked blonde wearing a necklace
of flowers covered in mud, tripping
her tits off to Santana.” 
“What happened to her?”
“Like I said, bad stuff happened.”
Bad stuff like and extra fifty pounds
of sagging flesh, formerly deep blue 
eyes washed out to eggshell powder 
blue, a dozen teeth dropping out
along with her cognitive abilities. 
Now she’s a novelty act: buy her 
a couple of drinks and see what happens. 
Nice they got out of jail, guys swore 
she’s the best ten bucks they ever spent.