Thursday, June 27, 2013

where the winds hit heavy on the borderline

            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.