Please be patient with me this time...This may be the longest poem I have ever written, and I wrote it in two stages, one on the 10th, the other on the 13th. I know that it's unclear in terms of who all the characters are - just as a warning, there are multiple "he"'s in there...at least 4, and sorting it out might present problems. But it all goes on in my head, and I'm the only one to properly recollect the night as it spun, so make of it what you will. I'd appreciate comments. I even named it, so you know I'm sort of serious.
The Last Lounge Act
Composed 10 FEB - 13 FEB 04
My wings flap and buzz
in an unangelic way
as I pass time on this wall
this couch, this table at a
hole in the wall bar, which is every
bar in every city I care to recollect
this repetition bidden for my
memory only -- from start to finish
I had a premonition about this
and felt it deep like marrow stuck
in bones from the second
I saw whiskey pounded down
until the last drop off
in my sober Sarah tour
what I'd seen --could it trespass these lips
or spill from this pen
I know not -- and yet saw it all unfold
in an introspective blink in the
parking lot /
unbidden guests of questionable import
as I refuse to question him
dropping proprieties and pleasantries
of the "how are you?" / "how was your
day?" sort -- I only ask when
I actually care about the response
and all the me me me interruptions
during all of the second chance
third-forth-millionth chance
conversations had gotten to me
at last, and so I stopped asking
pointless ____ meaningless ____questions
and looked into his grin,
measuring the places and teeth
my knuckles would knock clean
away from flesh if so provoked
and the sort of night it was --
starting from "
are you leaving us
in the car?!" whinings
was enough to show me
my sticking place
the silence surrounds us, and
truly I am by myself between
the two of us -- but not really
alone; I've got my demons
with me after all
and so slips of sarcasm and
arrows dribbed in poison and vitriol
shot, contact his chest,
unknowingly -- the man thought
I was sincere, I guess my
deadpan delivery precedes even me
(which is laugh out loud funny)
I guess he doesn't even know me
and so I switch my scene
for I care not for bloodied fingers
and ruptured knuckles glistening
in favor of drunken law and
state code and philosophical odds
and ends -- an inspiration
a request for information
and genuine interest
yes, I'd forgotten how people
really interact, afterall it's
been so long since I'd had
human contact -- this fishy
slickness leaving me wanting
in so many ways
and yes, he'd had his share
of wine drunk red and his
tongue loosed of its usual
sanctuary safe and guarded
perhaps not psychic armor as
suggested but a sweet awkward
turn of face and a blushing
that juxtaposed with
a sinister trouble side makes
quite the mismatch
but his tongue freed and on and on
it goes -- I don't mind, I think
it's interesting and not in a self-
centered way, more in a
meanders of an honest drunken
mind way
and it spins out of order a bit
sitting down again, rejoining
a scene left in my head
and the wine expert by my side
we proceed our running commentary
on karaoke blunders and fashionistas
he leaves my side for an upstairs bathroom
the implication of joining our
other friends, who apparently
had been happy spitting at walls
and it running down in purple streaks
I asked if it was hint hint mention
from what I could tell, he misread me
and thought I was hitting on him
in a way perhaps to brash
even for the likes of me
and then again not --
but I wasn't offering Courtney Love
services in the bathroom, that's
for damn sure - I just thought --
anyway that leads me to the
other Courtney ~ let's call him J
who gets quite dramatic
when he steps through the doors
of 'pussy pussy' -- spitting,
kicking, punching -- and I warned
him right on early
that if he felt the need to make a scene
I'd let him know
I'd show him how
and backhand him right swiftly
with no hesitation
he seemed startled by my candor
and ready to combat
but with certain curse words
and looks flung all right
I let him know -- tonight was not
the night to fuck with me
(not that there usually is a night
to fuck with me really)
and he sort of half shut his mouth
and yet he had a penchant for the
dramatic, for the overblown reaction
for the -- you get the idea
and so he picked a bone
with his favorite lesbian
and I got up in his eye
even though this is their
general state...still I was in no mood
and motioned my hand indicating
the course of events -- he made excuses
always always this pretense
of drunkenness
one shot and it's all excused
no longer in his hands in his control
but this scene played out
so many times before
I no longer accept the non-apologies
and intimated inebriation
it's all all the same
and the fakery seems brighter
in this dim light --
so exposed in its unrealities
that the shadows can't hide
any of it
from whiskey to wine to spitting
I got closer and closer to slapping
in its eventualness I found myself
upstairs, upon announcements
of unconsciousness I was racing
feet pounding wood to summits
and in the dookie brown room
he was roused and sort of
wrinkled -- hair mussed, well
since he'd slept and didn't
tame it back down before
our night of it --
I wanted him to use product
to accentuate the effects of
bedhead, but he sheepishly
refused -- now dual bedhead
it seemed
and I plopped my form on
the couch beside him
and he lay in my lap for a time
asked if it was okay
and I stroked him arm, his hair
my other than verbal response
it was a familiar position
and I felt I'd gotten a bit closer
to knowing him in all my
button pushing and prodding
on occasions too odd to mention
and we sleepily conversed that way
for a time, head close to my loins
but not in a dirty way
and passed the time
eventually upright, although
slouching his way out of the couch
our heads together in a lean
of scheme about Atlanta
and all night diners and
memories of experiences
plans made oh so many plans
probably never to be fulfilled
the talk talk of twenty four hour
people on the mend
our compatriots joined the room
an iconic homage to
all the girls who
all the cameras loved
in their sometime
Marlene and Betty Davis
but names mean nearly nothing
it's all just ICON flatter flash
and the drama spun yet one deeper
wine spilt on newly donned
cardigans showing a right
red spot upon the yellow V -
and screamed loyalties
and cigarette conversations
never meant so much
as now, as the pandora's
box ate ashes and endured
wood floors and book shovings
and broken glass
LET EVERYBODY KNOW! I exuded
but he whispered the secret
in my ear -- the first civility
from Courtney, although
he continued to spit --
those dookie brown walls
screamed for it
and I laced my hands and found
comfort for a moment's
time as he commented
that it was just like the
movies -- and yes, in my
voyeruistic journey through
these Alghieri bidden circles,
it really was something to
watch.
Perhaps Virgil was my inner
guide as well -- though
a bit more embittered
and we decelerated
and downed stairs
I had my ass grabbed
and we left without
a word.
From above I'd heard
a maudlin tune sung
doubtfully for me -- though
my mind still spins secretly
Ain't no sunshine
But yes I'm gone
we - we're out that
fucking door so fast
and I don't look back
just escape to a parked car
and some punk songs
and drive.
