goodnight, ladies (5/6/09)

saturday night
here I am again
on a leather chair
the color of horseblood.
in front of me, from
left, to right
is a green bottle
of lager,
an oyster po’boy
on white butcher paper,
and a soft pack of
Lucky Strike cigarettes
(14 remaining of 25)
the dial on the radio
has been set to 92.3 FM
KFAC, and Piano Sonata
No.8, Pathétique.
I’m in a coffee-stained
white shirt
and my blue-striped shorts.
across the street
Some palooka has
wrapped his Chevy around
the telephone pole.
you can’t buy tickets
to see shows like this.
no one seems to ring me on
the telephone,
but I know everybody’s out
on a fine smoggy
saturday night
just like this one,
drinking their white wine
and taking a break from
the mindless madness
that keeps them from being
as mad as me.
I believe in loyalty
and I loyally refuse
to be proud of my friends
when they disappoint me,
likewise
when I abstain for three weeks
I expect you to as well
or even surpass myself.
as one of those dirty romantic types
I now realize that I have
only succeeded
in preparing women
for other men.
I wipe the breadcrumbs
from my razor stubble chin
and sound a barbaric belch
up at the velveeta moon.
I imagine the whole city
shaking at my anger
feeling the extent
of my ennui
but the neighbor just
laughs
at the drunken slob
that I am.
I am a lover by desire
and a cad by practice,
though I enjoy playing
at both.
I leave the apartment
because there are pachucos
playing dominoes outside
and I don’t feel
like getting shivved.
I shine steel and scramble.
the highway at night
is like a game of pinball.
silver fastbacks packed
with disillusioned men
and desperate women
by God,
you’d think we would all
leap headlong into the
death glare of eachother’s
headlights.
but no, nobody really digs
that kind of vibe.
so on this Saturday night
there are no women
no friends
no records or films
just me in my Terraplane
and the lonely moon
watching me
watching the bay.
the ship of love
sounding a foghorn.
I park on the beach and
nurse the rest of the beer.
I wonder about the folly
of youth
and the fickle reality
that I have claimed
to embrace
yet continue to be shocked by.
I pour out the rest of the beer.
it was only
one fourth of a love
but gee whiz
it sure was enough.