I
bought a few drinks for myself, then looked at my image in the mirror behind
the bar. It wasn’t enjoyable to look at, so I looked away. Reconsidering the
plight I’d delved to recently, I decided to buy myself another.
Without
bothering to relax at all, without canceling my reservations for capital
letters and believable necessity, I sat and sulked. But most of me was not in
it. I wanted to iterate, not
reiterate.
I
mumbled, “Run for it, suckers.” That was it. That was all.
I
quit cheating and got out of the habit of begging for people to be nice. Hiding
out was the best possible situation for me. And, so, that’s about all I did. I
did my hiding in dark bars, mostly. I did my hiding discreetly. I did my hiding
flummoxed with aggressiveness. There wasn’t a choice. I plucked flowers until
the rain stopped.
Poor
light and a devil’s tail coat. A cropped dusk-lit marigold. I am stepping on
wet leaves and over-priced magazines. Nobody sings, “Vroom! Vroom!” anymore.
Nobody.
The
laundry tumbles. The day gets done. Emotions come and go like car tires on the
sun-cooked pavement. Hunger reaches a gnarled paw down your throat and tugs.
There’s another drink in that Vodka bottle in the freezer, at least. Maybe
another. It’s possible.
The
stories that never get told. Pulled hair and a dumb unlucky grin. I get less
than most out of cramming my sentiments away in my vest pocket for later. These
hands are where moths go to die.
Allegations
thrown like tantrums all over this place. You get yourself free. You get
yourself tossed. It’s better to bone up on disarray. Watch the streets for
signs of leaves. It’s like Wee Willie Keeler put it, “Keep your eye clear, and
hit ‘em where they ain’t.”
A
cat named Loretta and a former Olympic torchbearer. Inconspicuously consuming a
few more than a few. Oh, and there’s a 500 smackers reward for Loretta’s safe
return. An identifier in a deteriorating doorway shedding splinters and rust.
No more hushes are falling over the crowd. No more bandstanders to rough up. A
torn American flag waving from a newspapered-up window down a red alleyway.
Nobody’s feeling rotten. Nobody’s breaking eggs. A lengthy indication of an
imperfect moment less green than any of these trees’ leaves. And the
empty-handed have their hands cut off.
Let’s
return to complexities. Please, excuse the cleanliness. The allies we’ve yet to
make are out on paid leave. For a few things. The telephone poles were too
crooked. Dump the crestfallen on me. I’m intent on taking one side or another.
The
bar mirror’s not telling me anything I’d like to know. I’ve seen it all before.
I’ve seen it packed away in railcars off and onto other shoulders than these. I
am not so dreary with what’s here-- in my pockets, grinded in my teeth, or spit
out on a coat sleeve. A pianola somewhere is always playing, somewhere. For me,
or not. Somewhere.
So
wandering became the most normal thing to do, or to sit on a curb and tie your
shoes, have a smoke, scratch at your neck, sleep in the barn of your thoughts
for a bit. Don’t shoot the lights out or anything, though, you know. Spells the
worst, mumbles the rest. You’re scuffing the floor like Mel Ott. You’re
terrible at being you. Really, it’s just a poor excuse for a weak alibi.
Really, it’s nothing to notice or tell about. Off with it, you know?
Taffeta
on the mind, in the bowery of my worst dreams, in the hull of sulking and the
heart of slurring. Shit. I can’t make any amends worth a damn. None of these
songs are sad enough. Contemplating the lacquered smooth bar ledge, the palm
trees on the wallpaper, the narcoleptic whisky gnats who hover and hover and
hover. It’s all they do. That, and then stumble in midair and pass out in the
bar’s dust.
I keep to myself. I keep to my mumbling:
“Give me a badge. Call me Cowman. Get the way I remember her best out of my
head, just for a moment, at least, so I can sit here in peace and watch the
dreary light fade beneath the side door’s gap. My ride’s tied up just outside.
And my heart? My heart’s all tied up in here. So, play me something illicit
beneath the pangs of love’s done. Play me a song that’ll rip the tide from the
sea of your desolate eyes. Hell, I can’t complain. I just can’t.”
The
bar’s grown dark. So dark, you’d never believe. No more sparklers or neon or
jukebox light. No more glowing cigarettes. No more. No more. We all sit here
and wait on a dream that never arrives, but another drink that always does.
Talking’s no good. It just gets me confused. I will sit here. I will just sit
here and sit here and sit here. The sound of one man vomiting. Please. Don’t
tell the sparrows that I don’t miss them. Please.
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