She’s got her arm
Around contestant number three;
He’ll probably end up disappearing
Like the other two.
One of her offspring walks in;
A young petite Bible-thumper
Looking more flamboyant
Than Lady Gaga on LSD.
I suppose I could have freaked her out
And asked where she knew
To get a pair of those leopard print heels she was wearing
In a men’s size 12.
It used to be like that old Cheers song,
Where they knew your name
And they were always glad you came.
Now I’m only half-known,
About as glad to be there
As a piece of furniture.
Her kids are dressed up like department store dummies
And you wonder why they cry in public,
Scream late at night.
She’ll raise her kids
To be beauty queens and corporate kings.
I’ll raise my kids
To burn her kids at the stake.
“I can stop if I wanted to.”
Another phony tough
With a camo ball-cap
And a white t-shirt
Reading
“This ain’t your daddy’s bow!”
How tough can you be
When you’re hunting an animal
Whose main defense is running the other way?
I’d like to see him tango
With some real animals;
The kind that would eat him alive
If he missed that first shot.
Just another phony tough
With his arm around his girlfriend.
She had that pale glazed glance,
Looking like her brains fell out
Somewhere
Between her snatch and her ass.
A half-bearded hipster
In a pink button-up shirt
And stylish sandals
Ten feet away;
At one time,
Back when the world was right,
That distance used to be a lot closer.
I can’t eat
It’s too goddamn crowded
With all this half-known blood noise around;
A noise I used to welcome.
I saw salvation
Walking in wearing a black long-sleeve t-shirt;
The only intelligent conversation
In this packed madhouse.
Later that night
When it was all said & done,
I found myself in the sports dive
Just down the street
With a couple of old friends
Losing track of the amount of the beers
Cocktails and cheap wine
I was pouring down my throat.
Tom Waits and Hank Williams
On the juke
And old stories being slurred out,
I felt human again.
Woke up,
One eye half-closed
With my head softly pounding
A boozy, jazzy rhythm.
I read that success smelled like cock and vodka.
If that’s the case,
Then I’ll never smell like success;
I woke up smelling like I usually did after crazy nights,
Like cigarettes, cheap hooch and permanent loneliness.
One of the poetic geezers I knew
Told me to go back to bed,
I told him to go fuck himself
And think of me while he did it.
Speaking to the best friend I have
In this dirty writing gig,
I promised him a new batch of work
After I shook off the bitterness and jealousy
That comes after the nights are over.
I sat on the john
Shitting out the remains of last night’s bacchanalia,
Reading a volume of Bukowski
While I did it.
–Walter Beck