Charles Bronson

Blue mushroom smoke echoes
from Charles Bronson’s head

steadily pumping the doobie
he leans over the mezzanine rail

I approach him from behind
beer swinging from my fingers
fuzzy memories of his films
interposed with his exhaling real body
and giant head flickering on the big screen
swallowing us all

once beside him I remain silent
casually watching the movie
where Charles breaks ten bad guy necks
in an effortless zen exertion of dominance

I get a contact buzz as smoke billows
and fills my ears and eyes

Charles is a ganja smokestack
a ganja campfire
a ganja thurible straight from mass
a ganja forest fire out of control

he slowly turns to me and asks:
how did you get in here?
swallowing the roach and winking

I don’t even know where the hell I am
or why I’m on the balcony of some old theater
hanging out with a lit Charles Bronson

see, he says
a new joint magically appearing between his lips
the less control you exert
the more interesting it gets

he jumps over the railing and transforms into a barn owl
just before slamming into a plush red seat
between two enormously fat men
sucking soda through neon orange straws

another fucking dead owl
one of them says
every Bronson movie, no fail
says the other
belching and tossing the owl behind him into the darkness



Filed under poetry, published work

2 responses to “Charles Bronson

  1. Charles Bane, Jr.

    Trippy and spot-on.

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