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Poem: “The perfect act outside of Brady’s Tavern”

The perfect act outside of Brady’s Tavern

By Patrick T. Reardon

Stop, short the physical.

Yes, you know the

noxic feel in the deep

and up throat

and out,

and the thick wet stink

up your nose,

even though it is his feel,

his nose,

fellow feeling as you watch.

See in ghost

dark and shadow light

of this alley

the arc of acid flow,

all orange from the

Viceroy butter chicken,


an architecture of

color, contrast, tone, texture.

Build a sanctuary beneath it.

Hold here a coronation.

Mark the forehead with chrism

under the liquid vault.

Is this not divine clockmade?

Can you deny the beauty here?

And then a flash.

Cigarette lit.

Aroma of fire and flora fiber

under the unseen night cosmos.

Patrick T. Reardon


This poem was originally published 7.16.19 in Eclectica.

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