it was not the right night
for anyone to arrest me
for drunk driving.
but you don’t plan these things.
someone in L.A. decided
to put the loudest bar
with the happiest women
15 miles from my house.
And me without a horse.
And L.A. without a trolley.
i mouthed off as much as i could,
then i blew smoke in the cop’s face.
it wasn’t long before he was beating
my head against the hood of my car.
but i’ve got 400 years
of occupied Ireland in me.
1000 generations of fighting
the British with little more
than rusted guns and music,
blood and bone.
he was a first-generation cop,
and i could feel him getting tired,
till his arm went limp and still.
he was breathing hard and coughing.
blood dripped over my right eye,
and soon, i could taste it
i reloaded from the cigarette,
smiled like an irish tenor
who’s had his whiskey on the house all night,
and fired another round of smoke into that cop’s face.
he only cursed at me this time,
and got on with his paperwork.
Chrome Press 