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two_tall_no_ice
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werewolf
|
Cornered stool, mid-drift
darkened bar. people mill
about outside
like it's church.
they're exhaling their incense
and waiting for the right
combination of drunkedness
and tree shadows in the streetlights
and warm, warmly de-dressed other flesh -
to make a god
otherwise unknowable briefly and intermittingly
appear (in the jukebox, the sweet afterburn of bourbon,
the accidental brush of an attractive stranger's arm).
a god to cloak the night
in forgiveness and forgetting (in how they differ).
and on a night as this only the most important
can even be grasped and only the most broadly.
and there, disinterested in her cloistered
inane work friends -
some trifling girls and loud men
discussing an invoice, a meeting, and the new coffee -
sits approachable a sweltered, sweatered sham.
bright smile, wanting someone who knows the bluff,
but doesn't call it.
and after some smalltalk, some hanging staggered around,
after some subtle distancing motions with looks and such
(to let her friends know that her night goes on indefinitely
beyond them)
her hands and mine pull away from the mahogany bar
and into the orbit of the half hard half soft forms -
the living things.
And later her hair is stale gardenias
and stranded about my soggying face
as i discover her apartment
in the dark, our eyes above our stumbling kisses like train
lights through a tunnel.
all around strange pictures and furniture at the end range
of our small and moving lights.
and by now the night god is wearing off
but our inertia already feels like love
and so we pull the covers over us
like kids trying to read past their bedtime.
and awakening we'll think perhaps
it came too cheaply -
only a couple of hours, a couple of drinks
and then right to angling stretched flex legs
hanging on and off the bed.
but i think on the walk to my car that next morning,
during the drive past parks and mailboxes and small flowers
and the shade of buildings -
that it was more than any of us deserve,
and in some ways the most that can ever be done.
and bowing before select memories we acquire a new prayer:
"Oh God!, Jack burp, gardenias, deep until a slow curved stopping point, we should do this again, drink unto the night god, who forgives the day"
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060908
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... |
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werewolf
|
Cornered stool, mid-drift
darkened bar. people mill
about outside
like it's church.
they're exhaling their incense
and waiting for the right
combination of drunkedness
and tree shadows in the streetlights
and warm, warmly de-dressed other flesh -
to make a god
otherwise unknowable briefly and intermittingly
appear (in the jukebox, the sweet afterburn of bourbon,
the accidental brush of an attractive stranger's arm).
a god to cloak the night
in forgiveness and forgetting (in how they differ).
and on a night as this only the most important
can even be grasped and only the most broadly.
and there, disinterested in her cloistered
inane work friends -
some trifling girls and loud men
discussing an invoice, a meeting, and the new coffee -
sits approachable a sweltered, sweatered sham.
bright smile, wanting someone who knows the bluff,
but doesn't call it.
and after some smalltalk, some hanging staggered around,
after some subtle distancing motions with looks and such
(to let her friends know that her night goes on indefinitely
beyond them)
her hands and mine pull away from the mahogany bar
and into the orbit of the half hard half soft forms -
the living things.
And later her hair is stale gardenias
and stranded about my soggying face
as i discover her apartment
in the dark, our eyes above our stumbling kisses like train
lights through a tunnel.
all around strange pictures and furniture at the end range
of our small and moving lights.
and by now the night god is wearing off
but our inertia already feels like love
and so we pull the covers over us
like kids trying to read past their bedtime.
and awakening we'll think perhaps
it came too cheaply -
only a couple of hours, a couple of drinks
and then right to angling stretched flex legs
hanging on and off the bed.
but i think on the walk to my car that next morning,
during the drive past parks and mailboxes and small flowers
and the shade of buildings -
that it was more than any of us deserve,
and in some ways the most that can ever be done.
and bowing before select memories we acquire a new prayer:
"Oh God!, Jack burp, gardenias, deep until a slow curved stopping point, we should do this again, drink unto the night god, who forgives the day"
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060908
|
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... |
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jane
|
in_the_shadows_of_tall_buildings ?
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061016
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... |
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jane
|
in_the_shadow_of_tall_buildings ?
|
061016
|
