1.24.2012

whats it like
Saturday night, broken English
in alleyways, friends scattered through
the spiderweb of San Francisco streets
in primetime two o'clock AM?

whats it like
drinkin a pre-sundown trainway beer,
escaping away to
citywide escapades,
swallowed into the belly of the
insanity, digested in the intestine
of inebriation?

whats it like?
a nightmare of swarming
time travel, broken memories,
drinking pitchers, finding sixty dollars
at a bar, listening to the Doors,
and finding Kerouac, heading to
Broadway Street for strip shows
(the scene a smokey, sexy glow
about it) and going outside to smoke
an innocent cigarette, when

a cop, police, handcuffs, paddywagon,
jailcell, bloody-shirted man, floor sleep,
no sleep, not let out till ten AM on good behavior,
no phone,
no cigarettes,
a letdown of a morningtime
comeup.

coffee like a disease,
train finally leaves, sitting upstairs
falling asleep, dreaming
fast, of cold cigarettes
and taxicabs I could've caught.

"Sitting, swiftly sleeping, he said aloud to himself," he said aloud to himself.

1.01.2012

Cocktail Napkin Thoughts


Another poem come and
gone,

written and forgotten
on a cocktail napkin,
bussed by the bartender.

I give him a menacing look,
as I watch my words
buried in the bustub
under dirty plates and
sauce crusted napkins.

The bartender comes back
to see if I need anything
else; I don’t even
look up from my page and
point at my empty beer
glass.

He pours me another pint
of that euphoric
nectar of the dogs.

I kill half my beer in one
gulp trying to forget that
piece of myself sacrificed
to the trashcan,
the part of my soul I
described with just
words,
like a sign language interpreter
at a concert, translating
words for a deaf audience
who cant hear the music.
I sip on the remainder of my beer,
admiring the hostess at
the restaurant across the
street, who, even in the
early December weather,
wears a short plaid skirt, sexy
stockings, black heels and a
fake teasing smile.

She seats the patrons,
who don’t realize her
job is to act as plastic
as possible.

Isn’t this my job as a writer?
Plasticizing our everyday events
into meaning? Well fuck it!
There’s no meaning in
meaningless interactions

But it’s just as there’s no meaning
or reason behind a cocktail
napkin thought,

almost like a part of me meant
to be disposed of.