East Village or East Berlin?


A beer in a German stein on the first summer-like day of spring.


It’s warm in the sun. Childish joy from the rays springs like from puppy kisses.
A friend to share the moment on a Saturday afternoon brunch.


Jokes and anecdotes shared. It’s good to see brothers in arms.
Red-eyed late-comers sit down and steal fries. They were left overs anyway.

Hair of the dog! Nasdrovia!

Another stein? Why not? We have no other plans. An extra order of Belgian frites, please!
We play the dozens. The sun still enfolds us, but the crimson in our cheeks is not from the UV shower.


Voices escalate, clarity is accosted and the edges of understanding begin to blur.
Things are much more funny now. Dusk ushers a change of location.
Music, we need music!


More friends gather, like vampires stirring from their daily slumber, the night calls.
Like veterans at war, the new recruits are hazed and told battle stories from the earlier skirmish.
There is a fast learning curve.


Bunkered in their booths, the officers call orders.
A shot! Another here! Hey, me too! Me three!

To our health!

Stammering and stumbling, the wounded and scared begin to fall off.
Some casualties sustained by the fight. Vomit begets vomit.

Another round! Slainte!

As the fight goes on, but I must sleep. Tomorrow is another day to conquer.
Until I am claimed by eternal slumber, I must refresh the batteries to press on for the next charge.
The boots will lay empty tonight once again.

Y sveikata!


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