we're standing at the corner of the
bar and for the first twenty minutes i'm
scared I didn't lock my car door.
I'm wondering why people are so fragile--
how some feel like staunch walls and others
bone china, how when you hold them, some
feel like they have been here and others like
they have been nowhere, as if you might
fall straight through them because you
should know better than to lean on a shoji
When I touch people I feel their sadness--
bodies have shields but I've missed that
stair step, forgot there was a ledge there,
groped for the light switch and found air
he isn't a body, he's a hurt, a walking,
talking, immortalized pain.
Sometimes I find myself desperately searching
for something witty, for a laugh, for an old topic
we've already discussed. I ask did you get home safe?
by default because worry is the only place to go that's fair
territory, to care is to succeed, thrive in your propensity to brood
I'm still standing at the bar in a peach cardigan
the bartender squeezing in and out of the opening
and some biker with a gnarly gray beard buys us
shots of jameson which is pretty fitting but there's
still a full 4.30 worth of Redds in my hand that I
won't much touch--
Greetings from Inside My Head, a postcard I should
have sent out years ago, halls and halls of literature I've
written about each day, catalogued in scenarios, in fantasies
in trucks beds, events that lasted no longer than ten seconds
I've written monologues about people's fingers and how the
sunlight falls on different shoulders, every moment is a
stanza, every Alpha state a macrocosm, I'm in a room
full of well-oiled people and they're made up of tea
leaves, soot, black leather and molasses.
it's 11:33 and everyone's facing away from me for a moment
I keep telling Jessica she looks like she's crying, ironically, I didn't
know that's what happens when you're hammered. I shake
someone's hand, my name is somewhere out there on the pool
table, knocked around and lost down a hole like a billiard ball
like with anything, comfort requires the right kind of place
with a specific time zone, the one that comes with certain
people and my clock keeps spinning,
spinning
spinning.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
we're standing at the corner of the
bar and for the first twenty minutes i'm
scared I didn't lock my car door.
I'm wondering why people are so fragile--
how some feel like staunch walls and others
bone china, how when you hold them, some
feel like they have been here and others like
they have been nowhere, as if you might
fall straight through them because you
should know better than to lean on a shoji
When I touch people I feel their sadness--
bodies have shields but I've missed that
stair step, forgot there was a ledge there,
groped for the light switch and found air
he isn't a body, he's a hurt, a walking,
talking, immortalized pain.
Sometimes I find myself desperately searching
for something witty, for a laugh, for an old topic
we've already discussed. I ask did you get home safe?
by default because worry is the only place to go that's fair
territory, to care is to succeed, thrive in your propensity to brood
I'm still standing at the bar in a peach cardigan
the bartender squeezing in and out of the opening
and some biker with a gnarly gray beard buys us
shots of jameson which is pretty fitting but there's
still a full 4.30 worth of Redds in my hand that I
won't much touch--
Greetings from Inside My Head, a postcard I should
have sent out years ago, halls and halls of literature I've
written about each day, catalogued in scenarios, in fantasies
in trucks beds, events that lasted no longer than ten seconds
I've written monologues about people's fingers and how the
sunlight falls on different shoulders, every moment is a
stanza, every Alpha state a macrocosm, I'm in a room
full of well-oiled people and they're made up of tea
leaves, soot, black leather and molasses.
it's 11:33 and everyone's facing away from me for a moment
I keep telling Jessica she looks like she's crying, ironically, I didn't
know that's what happens when you're hammered. I shake
someone's hand, my name is somewhere out there on the pool
table, knocked around and lost down a hole like a billiard ball
like with anything, comfort requires the right kind of place
with a specific time zone, the one that comes with certain
people and my clock keeps spinning,
spinning
spinning.
(c) Brooke Otto 2016
A few things I was thinking about on a Friday night.
