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Whiskey Won't Cure Clap

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by Charly "the city mouse" Fasano

Whiskey Won't Cure Clap Cover Art
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about
The stories of Charly "the city mouse" Fasano accompanied by the music of woMANgione and Magic Cyclops. woMANgione is Ryan Honaker and Vincent Fasano and was recorded at Wild Type Studio in Denver, Colorado. Magic Cyclops music recorded in his version of paradise. "the city mouse" vocals recorded in Chicago by Justin "Nordic Thunder" Howard.
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released 24 August 2009
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tags: denver colorado charly fasano charly the city mouse fasano chicago denver poet fast geek boutique fast geek press poetry writer reading poems and stories Denver
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Charly Fasano is a poet from Denver, CO. His latest book of poems is called "Next Analog Broadcast" and is available on Sunnyoutside Press at sunnyoutside.com.

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Track Name: Bar Bar Anthology
it’s the only bar in denver that will still cash
my paycheck. the bartender never looks up as he
pours something painless over rocks for a suit
that’s about to fall off a cliff. the last lonely
girls sit like witches around a smoking ashtray.
a guy wearing a pressed shirt, playing video
trivia, looks at everyone like he wants to xerox
their asses. he’s the kind of guy that will stalk
someone real hard.

the it crowd pose in the corner and scat about
obscurity. ex latch key kids nod to songs by
another average emo band. college coeds wear
tight nothings. i thought they wanted to fuck
me but they only like my shoes. 4 anarchists in a
booth share one beer. white boys in sweat suits
play pinball, talk about how hip hop is so smoove.

beret man. he’s not an artist. he just looks like
one. he never claps. he snaps. he’ll sleep on
your couch forever.

yesterday, the poet chased herself around an
apartment with razor blades because she thought
she was a box. she didn’t realize the box she was
in would bleed. she likes how she tastes like gin
tonight.

scratch and sniff. smell the sin on her. she
thinks death is hilarious. the handicap only
slow her down. she boasts that she would get
heavy skinnard with jesus christ himself because
dudes with long hair are mall sexy. she’s never
been accused of being classy.

i sit next to a roach and drink it all in. if i
let go of this pint i might fly away. i talk to
drunks who respect me. i’ve been trying to
convince them whiskey won’t cure clap. i know
it’s time to leave when i hear “white rabbit” back
to back on the juke box. i don’t know why i poison
myself like the others at this pub that proudly
kills slowly.
Track Name: TJ
tijuana

i get stopped by tan motorcycle cops in san diego
on my way to tijuana for rolling through a stop
sign. they ask me if i like their new p.d. jackets.
they don’t give me a ticket. have a sunny
southern california day officer, thanks for not
finding the acid.

i haggle a 3 dollar ride from a drunk cabbie at
the boarder. he weaves inches from bumpers. fast
traffic, lane to lane. death rattles my teeth in
this back seat. remind me to put this on the list
of times i almost killed myself on accident.

i watch children sell chiclets while old women
pick pockets. i eat a lap dog taco and buy a swig
of wine from a little man holding a very big jug.

an old timer tells me he owns a bar. beautiful
women will serve me cocktails a couple of blocks
away. when i get inside all i see is a set of
stairs and red light. enter a line up of women
that look like my uncle tony in lingerie. the
ladies call me names i can’t understand because i
don’t want to screw. i feel bad so i give them
each a dollar for hugs, but some would rather
shake hands.

a small boy leads me down back
alleys to a place he calls “a nude bar”. i see
things i’ll never tell my next ex girlfriend. i
think a lap dance means something far more
aggressive in mexico. the bottles don’t have
labels. even the beer wants to remain anonymous.
i’ve forgotten people die in places like this.

never j walk in tj. don’t bribe a federally for
his hat. if i get lost i’m fucked. there are
identical churches and similar shoe stores on
every corner in the part of town where duty free
has never existed and neither do i.

it’s monday and nobody’s at work. what do
americans really do between commercials? my best
guess is they open another bag of chips, living
life 22 minutes at a time through someone else’s
eyes. i sit in san diego and watch blonde people
play beach games and surf. i try to count the
jumpers downtown standing on top of skyscrapers
scratching god’s ass for money.