Sitting in a bar alone
I don’t know what to write so
I close my eyes and imagine I’m able to
move outside myself
let marks be objective marks and while I breathe
simultaneously glancing over at Indigo
In the strawberry hat, sitting to the right of me
Perhaps she’s I, later in life
alone in the back corner of a bar with a book open
pages all wrinkled and worn
on her third glass of wine, or maybe more
scribbling in a composition notebook that looks like
it was in the great flood,
she’s got knobby knees
likely covered in mud, and she’s stared at
just like me
for reasons unbeknownst to our lonesome selves
though never lonely in a busy bar
perfect solitude, silence in chaos
We lean across the great divide of tables
share words when the taste of wine and
the musings of life
call to us
She went to retrieve another glass and
said to me, “I’ve forgotten your name already” and
I don’t mind
I’m staring at a skull hanging from the ceiling, thinking
how do I escape the walls that are me
the fleshy bits, carnal desires, the pink stroganoff, liverwurst consciousness
the incomprehensible miles of feelings and emotion
somehow wrapped in a bit of skin
the cursed organ that brought me to the doctor because
I’m fucking blossoming, and
not in the pretty way
A pubescent teenager on her first day of school
I’m running,
running to keep up with the nonsense expectations
the woes of me of
being alive in society and
Indigo wants me to watch her seat
It’s life’s greatest duty
lending a hand to an imaginary friend, I mean truly,
what else is there?
The virtual reality where I live out a virtual existence?
The facade, the perfect chiffonade, buttoned up
cupcake, cherry-on-top version of me?
But Indigo, you see, she’s so pretty
third glass of wine down the hatch
she’s goes outside to smoke another
she and I, we’re in this together and
Nothing feels better than hands in my hair
rollin down a hill like a barrel, like
a keg of the town’s wanton wishes
showing up in the toilet bowl tomorrow morning,
yesterday’s dream, but a tired giggle away at
the bottom of your glass and
Indigo’s eyes, they shine, but
earlier, I was told that mine were dark
asked, even, did you sleep well last night, darlin?
Well no, I awoke at 5 am with the wheels a turnin’
struggled to fall back asleep
you see, when I’m on my side
my chest caves in because
I prefer the fetal position and when
I finally fell back into slumber
I dreamt that I was walking the steps to the tower and
she came up behind me, hugged and kissed me
I could feel the subtle stubble that
makes sand paper out of my face, could
smell the alcohol amidst her embrace, and
I was happy
It’s just Indigo and I tonight
the old black leather benches holding our
weary bones together in single packages
still confined to the walls
that are me
The fleshy bits, carnal desires, pink stroganoff, liverwurst consciousness
slop that shit up with crackers
preserve me when I die
hang me between the bricked walls at Specs
feed my sullen skull the cheese that
comes in the red basket
Drenching saltines in hot sauce
waiting for a friend to show
hoping she doesn’t
maybe her lover wants her home
she must tend to his infection and
I must tend to mine, it’s
one of the mind that
causes this lonesome parade, this
delusional charade of
Indigo and I