Krymani Lites

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A poem about a future barkeep's evening where alcohol is just one of the intoxicants served. The language is as if it's evolved somewhat from our present day.

Submitted: November 05, 2016

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Submitted: November 05, 2016

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Krymani Lites
A barkeep's slice of life
by Thomas Van Horn

“Hoya, Creamboat.”
“Krymani Lites, Jahoseph.”
“You way say the magic words.”
“Am well trained.”
“Here's your beer, baby.”
“Blastin band, can tell.”
“Goin dancin?”
“Ya.”
“Mime your manners.”
“Can do.”
Creamboat. Fully from the flow. Comfort given.
Her heart soars like this band here. Soars with sweet goin on.

This joints bout rollin by now.
Dinner crowd's windin down. Going home or stayin for tods,
or crams, or both.
Or even Krymani Lites for finer flights.

Take it from me,
it's my plant clan. Been round.
Papa's still givin, but he's tired.
It's Papa's off spring, his son and that light green goddess
with her thirteen fingered hands.
Their kids.
That's my bread and butter.
They pour bud like a waterfall.

“Krymani Lites, Jahoseph.”
“Beer baby?”
“Ya. How's the nubs?”
“Good love. Got some?”
“I do… 
“Libertoid's good tonight, what?”
“What.”
His prize, the beer, is given.

Beef tips wine gravy on rice just off the stalk.
Beds of greens. Orange squash and carrot shreds.
Red peppers.
Bread anchors.
Toddys and Krymani Lites.
Fusion in our brains with chemical might.
A dance all night.

Libertoid, divs, the band. 
Swing patterned fusion.
Jazz to the rave and minimalized.
So danceable.
Let the plys separate, baby. Let the skin peal.
Gettin down in, the music, the beers.
Ah, the pops.
Great day job. What a place to inhabit. 

“Jahoseph!”
“Bro.”
His eyes are wild and wide. Cosmic cosmetics.
“The lights…and Krymani, too.”
“What are you, a poet?”
“Yes.”
“Your beer, you maybe baby.”
“Thanks, sweets.” he says with his chuckle and away like some sachet.
His name is Harry from the olden days.
But his friends call him Mon Tain. Big ole fug. 
Nyloned till he's graceful.
Nylon. You can tell he squirms in the freakin feel.

Libertoid. Oh my God what a passage. How Riechian.
How am I sposed to work with such heart head playin?
And two pops to boot.
These people, what I love, demanding comfort chemicals.
And the band. Libertoid.
Sets me a sailin. A flight on bar wind.
I ain't workin. I live here. These people is my mother and children.

“Jahoseph.”
“Jan Ese. You look good all dolled. What?”
“Am.”
“What is?”
“Goin for shimmy and bop. So gim me a pop.”
“We got three tonight.
“The popular Jambo. Or Blue Spirit, not too good for dancing.
And of course, my house plant, Krymani Lites.”
“Krymani Lites do me.”
“Got your pipe?”
“Ya here.”
“This pinch be right?”
“Prob.”
“Come back if not, got more.”
“K B good.” 
“Will.”


Libertoid pulses there. The lights of my man, Jaws. Art hapnin.
Smoothes around with the band, on the stage, for the people.
In my place. Krymani Lites.
Dominates my heart. Like love.
Metallic confetti lasers.
Tsunami splashes, that can knock you down
if your head is just so.
The Jaws show.
He can sing a song.
Who's poppin? 
Good god, it's mine tonight.


“Jahoseph!”
“Misty.”
Rich green smock. Red eye shadow. Hat what's black.
“How's Jeri?”
“We good. Sweet peace.”
“Is nice.”
“Krymani Lites, what?”
“A love bud for you. Got your pipe?”
“Yes, and a green beer for conversationability.”
“Yoi.”
Misty's pipe has a long curved stem; something about a hobbit.
She has a custom holster for it. Leather.
“Here, give it fire…and call me in the morning.”
“Sir yes sir and I'll have a glass.”
“I am the glass man.” I hand one over.
“You're the Krymani Lites man. My favorite.”
“You're my favorite Misty.”
“I'm your only Misty, bastardo.”
“Drink you beer and fire you pipe.”
“K, join me?”
“Posib…just one.”
Swing down flip the crown. Get a little.
Oh one more. No one needs to mind the store.

Jiminy in her outfit, like sex without touching.
Singin rhythms with Jaws. Giving me something to fly on.
Ya! I wanna dance. Breathe that rhythm.
Libertoid.
But the demands. That's a buck or ten, depending on your taste.
You like petroleum pops? 
Recycled plastic pops?
Or organic. True pops. Old fashioned pops.
Before the pig. When farmers grew pops.
We have both.
You want a cramming chemical? We got that.
Want graceful flight of herb? We got that.
We got Krymani Lites, mebro. 
I contribute to the sanity. Human race! Pick mine.
Or pick the commercialist shit from robotic flask. It's your ass.
Got radicalisms bout tese things.

Oh, let me say, please, present your pipe. 
Don't eat the pill. Don't drink elixir.
Hold to the earth. Let the mother be your feed.
Drink some beer. Drink some wine. Top it with a hum of the pipe.
Just pinion.
I'll sell yo anything. My job. Business.
What the people want. That I have.
Look at the heads. Look at the enthusiasm.
It's profits to me even if I disagree.
Let it down. Let it down. Let it be. It's so easy.
Want to pound on it? I got that.
Want to travel yo chair? I got that.
Get your pipe. It's Krymani Lites.
Let's prance in fields enhanced.
With lighter lights. And higher heights.

“I want some Whiz.”
“Oh. How bout some Krymani Lites?”
“I got to go.” He sniffs. Reddened tears. “Whiz.”
His eyes decide; more milligrams. Chemicals designed by man.
Take a hard pound rather than a wave ride.
Pops bastardized.
“Which whiz then, mebro?”
“God how bout whiz to the third…”
“Nice talkin to ya.”
This man before me, he's electrified. A damned high metabolism.
His silver suit, pretentious tie. Blade boots.
Long hair farce if you're a purist. Which I am.
But payer is right, even if shit stinks.

Oh, the band, the night, and Krymani Lites.
The rhythm of the people of the people. The buzz at the bar.
But the crams.
Damn.
And this whiz biz.
How'd it come to this?
That whiz cram oil crap.
“What you need baby?”
Hops or grapes like a cake. Iced with Krymani Lites?
I'm your friendly enhancement man these nights.
No answer.

Hey crap. 
It's Hands. Trouble every freakin time.
Hands tailgates. Maliciously. Being a pisser for sport.
“Whiz to the forth and caffeine slam.”
Gets it every time. He don't dog for taste. He don't wanna fly.
He dogs to get rabid.
“Yo. Same old coming up. You be good?”
“Name's Hands.”
“I know.”
“No trouble.”
“I know that, too. Three yune twenty for the guzzles.”


Libertoid's music, in one of their songs,
way down into their show,
the drums go boom titty boom titty.
Others look up and laugh just then, too.
Seen that.
Songs slide like skating, smooth, fast, easy.
They got one called Cream on a Slope.
They love my Krymani Lites even playing elsewhere nights.

Han on his drums, famous for his fifteen toms,
like a scale that's never existed before. He plays um.
Little tings. Little dings. Found bells he says. A portion of his instrument.
His base drums, got two. A big loose and a little tight.
He can tap dance on that.

“What da ya want?”
“Krymani lites.”
“You tellin me some secret?”
“Yam.”
“Here's your beer, baby. I love you.”
“Jahoseph, love you.”
“Come.” 
“Will.”

And Bobby, old name, can bounce bass git notes like ping pong balls.
Big fat strings. Go Bobby, he's doin it now. Look at that.
Being the base, like he's ridin on the drum stuff.
Heart beat match. 

Listen to that.
There's chords laying out long like streams.
Hear um?
In the midst of that jazz flight?
A surface to sit on.
That be Jinks. She can cry on the keyboard.
Her long chords, the song's water.
What?

Oh.
Here come Selah.
Guzzle desire in his eyes.
How I love that bro.
Sittin in your sight; still as stone.
“Man? Krymani Lites.”
King of brothers. With the grin of one grounded fellow.
“You, sir, are the proud winner of a beer.”
“That, then, would harmonize with my pipes. I've stated my case for Krymani Lites.”
“Once upon a time.”
“Selah.”
“And I remember.” 
“My pipe, sir.” He presents it. Squat glass.
I pack some bud with practiced finger. Then I lick it cause I love it.
I givem that hit for free. 

A chaotic masterworks of new combinations. That's Jams.
His guitar. Like the point of an arrow.
Just when you think there's nothin ever goin to be new again,
shit's so mundane,
he give. He be jazz.
Put on the zing, Jams. Good art.
This band's a place ya never been.

So whadaya want?
Hell's bells? 
We got it. 
Whiz crams? Caffeine slams?
Beers and wines. And liquors. 
Smokeless NiKaLik sips?

Loads for your pipe?
Even Krymani Lites?
What heights?

Oh…
But best of all, it's the nights.
The people on Libertoid flights.
Jaws and Jams and Jiminy givin it
We're all livin it
The lifts and the lows
foodin and boozin, my friend.
And if you like
For higher heights
And finer flights
Some Krymani Lites

© Thomas Van Horn 2013


 


© Copyright 2017 Thomas Van Horn. All rights reserved.

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