bar canon

the poor
are so full
of how bad
their lives are
the rich
are full of
stories about
how much
fun they are having

i sit
at the bar
and listen
and struggle
anxious about one
embarrassed about the other
having been both
to believe
any of it

i m scared
to say it
but glad to be
alive

too bad
buk can t
be here
to enjoy this
confusion
so well sorted

the don quixote bar

sitting there alone with all the pretty words

rotating a golden rumitchka

with silky cold of tarnished vodka

all the pretty birds have flown

darkness becomes frighteningly large

another siege of solitary pillow

discovering how huge small noises can sound

trying to narrow down empty space

to what can no longer be called alone

trying to hone down too numerous words

arrow prayers into expanding distance

hope like waiting for an echo

from a night soft as black silk

with tomorrow like a cliff too far

rock-hard and real but tough to see

under rule of empty stool

closing time is here

vodka chicken lips

i roll like a sloth over land and sea
i am not lazy only compromised


rung tumble slumble
foolish word mumble
i am an advanced agent of a dizzy government


overlooking that laughing land
i have just stumbled out of
i want to laugh and
i am so loose


i know that all things are loveable
especially that all too nervous dinner
that not so long ago was worth having


but now presides over the future
precarious as a long drop