Second story dive bar; October’s eve.
Lights dimmed, laced with red neon signs
Snaking shapes and letters; booze and boobs.
Flat screens; baseball; one on, two strikes, two outs; muted.
Glass bottles, glass shelves, glass panes overlooking
Gum stained sidewalks and grimy snow
And flakes—falling—mocking, from the other side.
Indistinct figures; faces ensnared in shadows,
Like hosts of lost spirits waiting for their curtain call.
Amateur Comedy Night; laughing in the dark.
This guy, the emcee postures, this son of bitch is here every time.
Let’s hear it for Jay Cruise!
On stage with no stage, no laughs for meticulous words.
He’d show them he could do it, he would show them.
He swore it would work this time, just this once.
Every past scorn—faggot, you worthless faggot—
Swallows his conscience in white noise:
Fuck it, he says after two jokes and descends; back next week.
Emcee recovers, all right all right, moving on, next up,
He says, next up we got a real funny guy, give it up for Mike D!
Applause, it’s all he’s ever wanted:
Dad, dad, look at what I can do, he said, and could never stop trying to forget.
Shut the hell up! What’s the matter with you?
Ever interrupt me like that again and I’ll split your goddamn lip!
Nervous lines in a tangled smile; please look, his hollow eyes plead.
Please?—but no one does.
The microphone passes from his trembling hand.
I know ladies ain’t people, and ain’t funny but we got one in the house anyway.
Put your hands together for this dumb broad,
She’ll be in back for twenty bucks a person after her set.
Loud cackles and refills all around as she faces the audience.
Hanging onto his last words she wonders if he’s right.
It was last night; night before; she prepared for tonight.
Can you just hold me? She asked when he finished.
Flicking wrinkled bills onto her yellowed and naked body, he glared:
You’re not my wife, he said, and spat on her.
If she only could convince them that she had more to offer,
But the set is already over and she’s feeling lonely.
Tough crowd tonight, emcee rumbles, but let’s keep it rollin’.
Heard him before, get his party started for the man known only as The Kevin!
Only a first name because he doesn’t want to remember more,
Believing that the more cracks about molestation, the less real it becomes.
I trusted him, how could he? How could he? Keep laughing!
They’re laughing, but he can’t hide the memories.
It’s our little secret, the sensuous whispers remind him with every feigned chuckle.
He’s used the same line too—can’t help himself anymore. She’s so young.
Met this character tonight, don’t care what his name is, the emcee laughs
Funny guy though, and I know cause this kid even looks funny! C’mon up Corky!
Tightened stomach with a drunken brain and its happened:
I’ve been waiting for this!
But the spectators are shrouded in darkness;
A meeting of the undead with vein-red eyes.
Something’s wrong. What’s wrong?
An imperceptible darkening in his eyes;
A gleam of reality fists a dagger between his ribs:
This isn’t what I want, this isn’t what I want. Oh God, this isn’t what I want!
And somewhere outside—beyond the windowpanes,
Like a glass house, it’s still snowing.
Flawlessly luminous flakes touching down in silent ecstasy,
Transforming like chameleons into gray flecks like sidewalk;
Like asphalt, like skin, like statues, like shadows—
Like asphyxiating souls scouring amongst
The living and the dead of an empty heart:
Still beating, still sacred, still loved, but still lost.