poem #34

Venice Reprise
Close my eyes and they’d
arrest my pasty ass, call
me a public nuisance, and
book me on a malfeasance
grievance. Eyes open, though?
No problemo.
Wait, isn’t that
I’m bloated on pizzelles.
I’ve got this moldy anise
stink. Fifty-six sleepless oras
in the Venice streets.
Too low on soldi
to afford both
a hostel bed
a sugar high.
My teeth are as fuzzy
as the fluffy cattail
bristle of a bulrush.
Got no toothbrush.
No mouthwash neither.
Just a George Dickel fever,
bottle to my lips, cocked like a pistol.
My sister says I’m an ugly American tourist.
She’s a boorish Puritan absurdist.
What’s wrong with tipsy?
Aren’t I class act? 100%
Tennessee lass. Notes
of sour mash whiskey
on my breath. A crucifix
between my breasts.
My God loves me
whether or not
I piss and
pass out
in San Marco Square.
– Kirstin O’Connor 
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