Monday, August 31, 2009

Post-festival moans

Just survived another crazy weekend of bartending and rock n' roll and thought to share this piece that was written after another crazy weekend behind the bar.

Oyster Festival, Saturday Night, 2006

You had the winner last night.
I commended you this morning
as I woke myself up laughing
on my lonely mattress
in my South Side flat.
We were side-by-side
amidst a sort-of war,
battling glasses and masses
who wanted more beer,
more shellfish,
more vodka.
"Give me more delusion
ten minutes ago",
their faces said.
A man the size of two Coke machines
was banging a less-fortunate patron's
head off the bar above us,
unbeknownst to us at the time.
Soon he would threaten to send
a manager into the afterlife.
But downstairs, you said that you
had a serious problem.
I, in my selfish-brood, said that
I kept imagining that I might
carve up people's faces
with the remnants of a broken
bourbon bottle.

Earlier an off-duty co-worker,
drunk on scotch, had smashed a
glass of straws against a pillar,
showering the bar with shards of detritus.
He did so despite the fact
that the brewery's owner was sitting
next to him.
Said the chards to those sitting
with ice that would never melt
in their drinks
on their clothes.
Thankfully, not in their eyes.
But you, sensing a need to lighten the mood,
"No, I have a serious problem.
I can't keep my hands out of my pants."
I insisted that you climb atop the
rail and lessen the crowd with your
lust, almost barking the order, in jest.

After that, the rest of the night
shed its gravity
and no one was shooting at us.
I knew that all was
quite manageable
even though we had lost quite a bit
of faith and hope,
plenty of bodily fluids,
including a little blood.
It was all quite manageable and
we could sort out our regrets
and do our second-guessing later
after double-douching the place,
locking the safe
and going to our reserved places of rest
to awaken in twisted sheets,
though mine were less twisted
than usual thanks to you, my friend.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009


what you believed
the memory captured
no approach in sight
a faint sense of ease
pleasure and then vanished
but dripping from
all of your being.