Poetry walks into a bar.
She gets drunk
On life.


F.Z.**N

let them watch as she dances
their desperation hanging
like the smoke from their cigarettes

a sea of bloated bellies
and empty glasses
cast hungry glances from high
up on their bar stools

she will dance
and they will wish
they still had a spark that
could catch her attention
longing for a night
taken from the pages of their
glory days

let them watch

in hopes that a piece of her spirit
will twirl off her skirt
for them to capture
and put on a shelf
along with what they once
had been

just another thursday night
at the tragic tavern

walking down a backstreet
had to quench my thirst
for alcohol or devils dust
which one would be first

it was then i heard the music
i forgot why i was out
my demons were in check now
t'was the music....there's no doubt

a backstreet bar
a dim lit stage
a singer singing
full of rage
demons screaming
hers and mine
i stumbled in
I had time

anger, venom
loud and strong
bass line pounding
pulled along
demons quelled
to say the least
this music tamed
my savage beasts

i sat and listened for a little while
i got a beer, it cost a smile
the waitress knew why i was here
i guess she figured, one free beer

the singer tore the stage apart
songs from her soul, not from her heart
she took a break and that was when
my demons found the night again

shaky, jitters
couldn't sit
couldn't focus
not a bit
cold sweats, cramping
demons caged
and then again
she took the stage

anger, venom
loud and strong
bass line pounding
pulled along
demons quelled
to say the least
this music tamed
my savage beasts

i knew the battle i would lose
my hunger was too strong
brought in line for a short time
by a singer and her songs

tomorrow night another war
between the hell in me
would my demons be calmed down
or would they be set free?

Damm , sounds like home to me
T. S. Elliott's wasteland
Where puragatory worst residence live
Raise a toast to the Ghost of Christmas Past
for you haven't the pressence to make a future out of it .
Where happy hour never ends and friendship is sealed by the clink of glass
And all the women have traces of ***** on their lips as they ask hey buddy will you buy me a beer
Year after year until O'Hara's Pub and Grill becomes your Thanksgiving , Easter , Memorial Day , Christmas , and New Years Day
And they even paint a reserved parking space out back for you
But they were the only bar open for the blizzard when everyone took acid and danced barefoot in the snow

The Sharpie X on my hand stands out against my pale white skin

It says "you are a child"

With it a thirteen-year-old is equally restricted as a twenty-year-old

The sharpie X means no alcohol and it means no trust

It says "you are a liar"

With it they are making sure that you don't lie about your age to get alcohol

Is that what every person under twenty-one is?
A liar?
A kid?

The sound of my footsteps
is ringing in my ears
because the music has died
and the pizza
has soaked up
all of the alcohol

But you are still
pounding in my chest

You have a spark that blazes past my ice cold eyes,
you're the six on a weathered pair of bad decision dice.
You're the smoke in my lungs; my hip's friction's delight,
and you're where I want to be at the end of the night.

So pull me by my the clasps of my black leather coat,
past the bar, to the back, to the room that Aidan keeps aside.
Whisper in my ears, past the roar of alcohol and smoke,
these words that I've longed to hear for some time.

Say:
"You are the cherry on a cigarette; the blade of a knife.
You burn me and turn me to melting when you enter my sight";
I'll say:
"Your lips are my addiction, your *** is my television,
and your eyes are where I want to be at the end of the night."

Then we'll explore love and bad decisions on the table and the floor.
You'll pull me closer, bite my ear, and whisper. "Shut the door."

there sits Father Time
drinking a 50 year old scotch,
neat.
His compatriots
Sister Life and her Brother Death
sit close by,
the Sister sipping *** on the Beach
while Brother blows bubbles in his Shiraz.
All served at the cosmic bar by The Great Spirit
nursing a big 'ol Long Island Iced Tea.

I'm thinking of creating my next masterpiece,
Brother Death said.

"Maybe this time, don't use a bucket of paint for just one blade of grass,"
Father Time chuckled.

Sister Life spun around
and round on her spinny stool for several decades
until she hopped up atop the bar, proclaiming in French,
I don't make the best hexadecimal frittatas in the seventh dimension for nothing!  

Suddenly all brought their glasses together in a supernova clink
as they cheered
"May we continue to move forwards in the trajectory to wherever the hell we're going!"