I can feel on top of the world.
But these others…
I don’t feel
worth the effort my mother exerted
To give birth to me.
I do not even amount to the used rubber that failed my father.
An alcoholic doesn’t drink
to have fun,
But merely to dilute his bloodstream.
And draw the next obscure illusion that will carry him
By his feet
And into tomorrow.
Two semi-gorgeous women sat across the bar.
They deliberated, huddling with each other.
Concocted together, the perfect question to ask the guy at the bar by himself.
They wanted to break the ice, I wanted to break their skulls.
I didn’t know why.
A blessing or a curse?
And has my soul “oopswe’reforgotten!” its whole self away?
They were going to ask me what I was doing here.
All I could
Say to them was…
“What do you want?”
“Can’t you see I am drinking a beer?”
Before they could even ask.
“Who did your hair?”
I asked the bartender
“Are these girls good lookin? I don’t have my eyeballs in!”
He looked at me
as though I were a weary old man,
and had his corpse desecrated
by a thousand moving vehicles in the busiest intersection in America.
That’s where I am, isn’t it?
In horror and guilt, he continued to stare.
But I am merely a
year old guy,
trying to knock back a few drinks
and dream the night away.
“They aren’t bad” he said.
I nodded and waved him off with a flick of the wrist.
Where did you buy those clothes?
Do you come here often?
What do you do?
How do you do it?
Men across the playing fields were preoccupied with their lecherous behavior and peculiar drinking games.
“Go Go Go” they chanted for a 4’5 Chinese girl drinking from a pitcher.
The man next to her was drinking from…
What the fuck IS that?
A feeding tube?
What do you do for fun?
Do you have a girlfriend?
Women are drawn to me.
I wish I knew the whats, the whys and the hows of which they can throw me away so easily.
It must be the smug, leave me alone look that I wear out at night.
Or the staring off into boundless distances.
Why would they want to befriend a guy who goes to bars alone, anyhow?
I’m one of them.
Bad posture, rolls of tummy, perverted grin and insatiable appetite.
I fit right in this fucking circus.
Green grass takes its senseless effect.
Why can’t I be that guy?
Or that guy?
That guy over there…or him!
How about that hobo over there with missing teeth and tattered clothes.
Why can’t I be that dirty dollar bill he has white knuckled in his left hand.
Or the young man in the letter jacket and welcome mat on his chest, talking to the ladies over there.
I could get up from this fucking stool right now…walk over there and show him how its done.
I can take her home tonight.
If I wanted to.
I could hear the frustration in her voice already,
when she shouts:
“Three minutes? What the fuck…Three minutes?”
Excited she’s leaving already, I could hear myself say.
“Yeah, cause I’m a fucking loser, its more convenient this way. Bye”.
Does drunkenness make me better looking or worse…
I know shitbrain, deader isn’t a fucking word.
Why correct your fucking grammar when you can’t take the time to correct your fucking life.
Look at you; a pathetic piece of shit.
What’s your sign?
What do you do for fun?
What kind of music do you like?
Are you going to school? What is your major?
Another bartender just called me by my fucking name.
“What the fuck are you talking about asshole, leave me alone”
I flung my head into the bar and the resounding thud warranted me undesired attention.
Bar tricks are ridiculous science projects presented by bored underpaid teachers who spent half their adult life in a college laboratory flicking class and smoking pot.
The bartender must have felt the need to entertain me.
“What is this? Some twisted Christian science?! Get outta here!”
From the cigarettes see sawing on ashtrays, to the bile in my ice cold throat…
I’m just a glutton for fucken drunken punishment.