Poem of the Day 01.30.09

life like a stomach hole

the days rain on
and the nights won’t stop,
so you just don’t stop them.
except you sit in the small living
room
with the radio,
wondering when it will fall
to pieces.
i have a burning in my stomach,
a possible hole.
yet i still take it one beer at a time.
it is collateral damage i am trying
to ignore.
and the shits are so bad, i’m
beginning to bleed out of my
asshole in small sprinkles
on the crumpled toilet paper.
this is not poetic
or the stuff of legends, you see,
but is foolishness i’ve learned from too much
daydreaming.
and when i told you this morning
that the day i hear that my number is up
will be the happiest day of my life,
i might have been wrong.
in any case, you shouldn’t
believe that
because maybe i don’t,
and there is no sense in me making
a liar
out of both of us.
i think maybe i’d just like the rain
to stop pissing on me,
for a change of pace,
and for the bank roll to roll steady,
and for the world to shut up a little bit,
as i sit here,
in pain,
reading another goddamned book
i won’t remember by the time i return it
to the library.

Poem of the day 01.29.09

86’d

the old joint tried
to 86 me
because i couldn’t prove the value
of chaos
on a friday night, correctly.
the old joint
the one where most of my
paychecks had gone to at times
to wine and beer and scotch
and jukebox music.
their bouncer wanted me out
in the cold
because it was friday night
and he was the big boss passing judgment
on st. marks place
and because i took their phone
off the hook and let it dangle there
because i tried to climb on the bar
intent on kicking down a row of drinks
before ally and dan stopped me
because i felt old and entitled
to a stack of brooklyn brewery coasters
and a bottle of worcestershire sauce
that was just sitting there, waiting to be put
into someone’s bloody mary
because i couldn’t prove the value
of chaos, correctly.
the old joint
the one with the beer stained floor
and tin ceiling
the one i’d stolen pitchers of budweiser from
the one with epic poems etched
into crooked tables
along with love odes and hate notes
the one that had given me a million buybacks
when i was down and out
they wanted me and my money
to go somewhere else
on a friday night
to try and prove the value of chaos
to find the pulse
the wanted me 86’d and back on the streets
of america.
but where could i go?
i’d spent so much time in that joint
over the years
that i knew of nowhere else
so i apologized to the bouncer
and he went back to his throne
and i went back to my seat
just like you and them and the rest
and i had a nice conversation
with a couple from toronto.
we talked about buffalo and the weather
and hockey and the health of the global economy
and the chaos took a nap back
in the belly of my soul
right next to my youth, ambition
and all that worthless, unbridled desire.

Poem of the Day 01.28.09

for the guy
whose dinner i bought

drunk
and charitable
are both the same thing
and in this economic
climate
you got to be drunk
to blow money
but you looked sad
sitting there
eating a hot dog
and fries
in the packed bar
with no teeth
and bags over your
shoes
to keep in the warmth.
you looked like
my grandfather
and i felt fat
and charitable
and i never did a thing
for my grandfather
except wait him out
and carry his casket
when he died.
so i gave the waitress
$25
and told her to keep
quiet.
and you,
maybe you thought the world
had one last
miracle to give.
maybe you didn’t
even care
who paid the bill.
what does it matter
anyway?
three days later
when we are both
hungry and stuck in the
unforgiving world
again.

poem of the day 01.27.09

headliners

one of them was
this hippy woman
who read poems in verse
and kept mentioning allen ginsberg
after every second breath
and she made
the characters in her poems
speak in these
obnoxious voices
trying to be funny
but no one laughed
one guy downed a glass of wine
and tried to leave but
his woman stopped him
and the other headliner
was this old folky
from back when the village
wasn’t all boutiques
and bars with $20 martinis
he was a man who needed a mic
for his guitar too
because he was authentic
and in love with the other headliner
and he probably shared a bathroom
with dylan once in the early 60s
well, he played these bad
folk songs about commies
and the government
and he kept shouting about
barack obama
and he worked his best to get
the audience into it
which they weren’t
so everyone kept drinking until
they were done
and i was the guy who stole
the employees please wash your hands sign
from the bathroom
because i needed something to do
something to believe in
i needed art
but no one was making it
that night.

Poems of the Day 01.26.09

lost weekend

i was sure she was fucking
someone else
but there i was in atlantic city
anyway
with a group of friends
that i was getting less
and less close to
and i know she was fucking
someone else
back in pittsburgh that weekend
she was eighteen
but told everyone she was twenty
and i was twenty-three
she was going to the prom
with an old friend
and i was in atlantic city
with dead friends
and comp meals and free drinks
and air supply and elvis shows
and a pocket full of ritalin pills
that i’d stolen out
of someone’s desk at the job
i was so sure she was fucking
someone else
not necessarily the guy she went
to prom with
but maybe this friend
of her older sisters
who she wouldn’t shut the fuck up
about
this weasel-looking guy
who always watched us when
we were together
looking at me like i was some
kind of animal
christ, she was back in pittsburgh
fucking someone else
and i was in atlantic city
getting high off of ritalin
and beer and vodka and pot
and these long island ice tea drinks
that knocked me on my ass
she was back home fucking some weasel
and i was in a strip club
watching my buddy come in his pants
during a lap dance
because he loved her too and hated me now
watching my buddy lose twelve hundred dollars
at poker tables
and at palm readers
because he loved her too and i took her away
and i was so damned sure
she was fucking someone else
the weasel
the prom date
one of her co-workers at the wall-mart
anyone
and there i was in atlantic city
friendless
vomiting off of the boardwalk
standing in the rain
at a pay phone
with twenty dollars in quarters
trying to call pittsburgh
trying to call her
but all i got was the answering machine
on her cell phone
and her father back home
who said she hadn’t been there since
friday night
and i knew right then and there
that we wouldn’t last
because she was back in pittsburgh
fucking someone else
and i was standing in the rain
in atlantic city
watching the gray ocean curl
over the gray sand
thinking, billy wilder
you can go and eat your goddamned
heart out.

poem of the day 01.24.09

pears and oranges

some people don’t know
when they are killing you
like i was in the grocery store
and i realized in line that
i had been in the grocery store
three times that week
because i kept forgetting things
like milk and cat liter
and the apartment started smelling
like cat shit
and there was no milk for morning tea
so there i was
and it was friday, work had been hell,
and all i really wanted
was a goddamned drink
before life caved in again on me
so i stand there
with my milk and cat liter
and fake cheese slices
and the cashier is ringing up
this haggard beast in front of me
who looks like the world kicked her
in the face most of the time
and she’s doing the health food thing
with pomegranate juice and oranges
and pears and leafy lettuce
and herbal tea
i watch this beast looking at her
groceries as the cashier rings them
and throws them in bags
and i wonder what the point is
why we trick ourselves so badly in this life
when the lady starts bitching about her
pears
and how they are $1.49 a pound not
$1.69 each
She flusters the cashier who has to leave
her check-out line to go and check on the pears
but the sign says the pears are $1.69 each
and they are the pears the beast has
but she, like a good american human, insists
they are not the same pears
but no one, not the cashier, or the store manager
or christ himself can find the $1.49 a pound pears
but they all leave the check-out stand
and the beast starts huffing
she turns to me and apologizes but she doesn’t
mean a goddamned word
then she starts complaining to me about
the pears
and who in their right mind would sell pears
for $1.69 each
i tell her i don’t honestly know
because i don’t know, don’t care
and i look at my groceries wondering
if i need the milk and cat liter
if i can stand the cat shit smell one more day
when the cashier comes back with
the store manager on her heels
and they both apologize to the beast
and sell her the pear for $1.49 a pound
which almost pleases the beast who takes
her package and moves toward
the sliding glass doors, blocking everyone,
so that she can check her receipt
and of course the cashier is going to take this
out on me
so there goes the milk carton smashed
and the cat liter bag torn
and the fake cheese slices being slammed around
i keep thinking about that drink at home
while the cashier dreams mine and yours, and everyone’s
quick death
and the beast is still in the store, up against the glass,
checking the receipt
when the cashier hands me my bag
and i take it
and i make to leave
but by then the beast is back in line
blocking me from leaving
wanting to know why her oranges cost
$.60 a piece
and the cashier looks at her, at me,
as i check the sliding glass
and watch the world outside
moving toward the end of another dumb night
on this unforgiving street.

Poem of the Day 01.23.09

racing heart

i wake
with piss pains
3:30 a.m.
after a night
of six scotches
and stand
in the bathroom
with my heart racing
trying to piss
thinking
okay this is it
this is what
i’ve been
waiting a year for
and i want
to say i was brave
like i stood there
with my cock out
pissing
inhaling my stale breath
of scotch and sleep
just waiting on the devil
but i wasn’t
i was scared, man,
scared of life
and death together
of my wife finding me
of the sun coming up
on this ugly earth
without me in it.
but then i finished
pissing
my heart still racing
and i went back
into the black
bedroom
and just got in bed
and lay there
waiting on the
6:00 alarm
getting in all the
quiet hours
that i had
coming to me
not sure what
else
there was i could
do.

poem of the day 01.21.09

one thing

this morning
or is it this afternoon
already?
i checked the mirror
and the mirror
checked back
and then the cat meowed
and i had a glass of milk
to calm the alcohol burn
in my stomach
then i fed her
until she was full
and went back to sleep
and at least one thing
got done
today.

Poem of the Day 01.20.09

.....yeah, i know. i already posted this back in november. seems fitting today for some reason.

new president

young and golden
history making
he stands in grant park
chicago
with his young family
as the country undulates
below him
as the seas rise
and europe loves us again.
this young president
with smiles
and good health now
inheriting debt and war
unemployment
rising temperatures
a fucked government
and four-hundred years of racism.
i wouldn’t want his task.
i wouldn’t want that weight on me.
and as we finish the bottle
of scotch
election night
i make a promise
to myself that i won’t
look at him
a few years from now
with regret and anger
when hysteria and the sense
of purpose have faded
when his hair has gone
all gray
when his face has turn ashen
and all of those good people
throwing adulation
his way
are calling for his head
and he wants to scream
but it won’t make a sound
over the din
of two hundred and thirty two years
of madness and genuine
stupidity.

Poem of the Day 01.19.09

me and this

me and this
packed like all hell
in a glorified cellar
with wine and bright lights
and the dust of dead poets
scattered on cornelia street

don’t we stink?

me and this
left impotent
where we stand
before the first words
are said

left impotent

like people buying shit
they don’t need
on saturday afternoons

left impotent

like people in big cars
looking to be lead
going green and global
in grocery stores
full of oil and plastic

left impotent

like warmongering
and rock star presidents
pissing on the new
american night
in prime time

left impotent

like champagne
and passenger airplanes
floating on hudson river ice

me and this
surviving the morning
the afternoon and the bitter night
and our stench
our horrible, rancid stench

left impotent

by 52, 26 paychecks a year
until death
and the bills are paid
until a suicide we didn’t know
we had coming
blindsides us
during a commercial break

me and this
you and i
pushing this down into
the pit of our rotted stomachs
drinking scotch and beer
in bed
in the cold of
a january friday afternoon
the music low
tolerating me and this
until we don’t exist

you and i
that is to say
me and you
that stands to reason
with each other
until the next reckoning
me and this.

poem of the day 01.16.09

i used to look

girl walking down
4th avenue, park slope
she has it all together
long blonde hair
a tan in january
a little purple jacket
with fake fur
and tight jeans
tucked into leather boots
she’s got her cell phone
pressed to her ear
and her bag placed
just right on the hip
doesn’t have
to wait for a red light
or service in a restaurant
she turns heads
turns the heads of three
hispanic guys
trying to cross the street
who all smack into
each other when they
turn back around
as she keeps moving
and one looks back
to get a last look
at what i imagine
is her perfect ass as well
while a car blows its horn
at them in the crosswalk
and i laugh
thinking i used to
look at women like that
all of the time too
before i got smart
and realized that underneath
the clothes
it’s all the same
just flesh and a dirty soul
and sometimes it’s better to
look at the streetlights instead
because you won’t get hit
by a car that way.

Poem of the Day 01.15.09

i thought

i thought the sun
would be brighter
i thought the moon
would be more romantic
i thought the food
would taste better
i thought the booze
would go down easier
i thought that people
would be kinder
i thought the music
would be beautiful
i thought the cities
would be magic
i thought the landscape
would take my breath away
i thought the rain
would feel cold on my
weary face
i thought being an adult
would be better
i thought the bills
would pay themselves
i thought the bank
would always love me
i thought that suffering
was something that you saw
on television
i thought that friends
called you back
i thought that jobs
wouldn’t try to hang you
i thought that governments
had some answers
i thought that god
was a concept
i thought that peace
was tangible
i thought that people
would wake up
i thought the world
could make it
i thought that i’d
be all right.
i thought of everything
before i finally gave up
and closed the blinds
and went to bed.

poem of the day 01.14.09

you can be the muse too

there is nothing to do here
but wait on the end or death
so i start watching a girl
with a sketch book.
she has a good pen and is
holding it sideways
sketching the guy sitting in front
of her.
she is working on the beard now
a long, red sage-like one
a whitman beard
that he keeps stroking while
someone speaks.
the girl has to keep stopping
but she’s patient to a point.
it looks just like him.
then she puts the drawing away
and grabs another piece of paper.
she begins sketching the old woman
to her left.
the old woman is much easier.
doesn’t move.
and soon the girl has this fine ink
sketch of the woman, the back of her chair,
and even some of the speaker’s podium.
i look at the drawing and admire it.
in my notebook are bad poems
and a haiku with too many syllables.
my wife eyes me
then gives me a look.
i point to the girl, who has taken up
her drawing of the bearded man again.
“look,” i say, “we have an artist
in our midst.”
my wife looks at the drawing
then turns to me and whispers
“oh, i see that all the time.
people are always drawing other people.
there’s probably even a sketch
of you somewhere.”
i sit back in my seat to consider
the idea
a sketch of me sitting in someone’s
notebook or in a pile of their papers.
then i go back
to looking at the girl.
she’s on to someone else now
giving up on the bearded guy a
second time.
this time it is a woman with bright red hair
that tangles instead of curls at the end.
she’s doing a good job on her sketch too.
then i turn away
and look at my watch,
as the sun drops a little bit in the sky
and the tress begin to droop
toward the west coast.

Poem of the Day 01.13.09

what you have to do is…

stop drinking all that beer
and getting drunk in public
and eating that shit that gives
you the pains in your chest and arms
and put in a transfer to another
branch at your job if the place is killing you
stop taking work so seriously anyway
stop walking five miles every single day
if your ankle is bothering you
and learn to take it easy when you get in
in the evenings
stop being afraid of the mail
stop worrying about the psycho upstairs
he hasn’t bothered us since august
and if the neighbor’s television is too loud
either knock on her door
or move the furniture to the other
side of the room
so you won’t hear it while you’re trying to relax at night.
stop being envious of other people who live
in quiet homes, in quiet neighborhoods
they’re banal and bland and dead
and they aren’t you and they have their own problems
even though you seem to believe no one has a problem but you.
learn to breath.
meditate.
do yoga or something.
stop thinking the pain in your head is a brain tumor
when you know it’s probably just your sinuses
because thinking that way is keeping you up at night
and you aren’t sleeping enough as it is these days
quit reading his blog
quit checking all of their statuses on facebook,
looking for reasons to hate them.
think about making an appointment to talk
to a psychiatrist because your problems aren’t getting
any better
and, no, moving somewhere new when the lease is up
won’t solve anything.
it never did.
and i’m getting too old and tired
to keep doing shit like that because of you
every two to three years.

Poem of the Day 01.12.09

old cigar and memories

i see an old cigar
on the pavement
and i think of you
and don’t know why

did we ever smoke
a cigar together?

anyway
i don’t think that’s the point.

but i was on your wife’s
facebook page again
trying to figure out which
one of her friends
is the one she is fucking
and leaving you and your
kids for.

call it detective work
if you want
but i’m just curious.

after all
i’ve known you since i was
nine years-old
and have been privy to a bunch
of your dreams
from baseball stardom
to having your own soul band
or basketball team.

it wasn’t supposed to work
out like this, was it?

you sitting in the home
you can’t afford
your parents dead and gone
nowhere to go
going to a job you can’t stand
and coming home to the wife putting
the kids to bed,
knowing over the lukewarm dinner
that someone else
is putting it to her on the weekend
and as soon as she can afford it
she’ll be gone.

i heard you even talked to him on
the phone last week.

no, man
it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
i think that too
when i wake up on another morning
where i’ve had too much the night before
or when i think i’m having a heart attack
in the bathroom at the job.
or when i feel like i’m drowning again.

it just wasn’t supposed
to work out this way.

but it has.

and somehow in this shit
we are expected to be men
and to bear the brunt of everything
that comes our way
like blissful and ignorant fools before
the stink and blood
of the slaughterhouse.

so be it.

if we must
we must be dumb for now
if for nothing else than to preserve
the shreds that are left
for the many years that remain
for art and the hope of love and hate
and for your children.

my dear friend
i see an old cigar
on the pavement
and i think of you
and i hope you’re doing
all right tonight.

Poem of the Day 01.09.09

poem for the girl who dedicated
a poem to me last friday night

i wish i could remember
your face
not for anything romantic or tawdry
but because oscar said
that if someone composes
a poem to you on the spot
then it’s worth something
they are worth remembering.
but i can’t remember you.
i was too drunk.
my wife and my friend
kept pouring me glasses of petite sirah
and i was wired because
i hate going to readings to begin with.
okay.
okay.
i poured myself a good amount
of the wine too.
still i can’t recall your face
or anything else about you
and i’m ashamed of that fact.
i feel like a primadonna.
but i remember the kid with the beard
and the black guy who wanted a flier.
i remember that one woman reading
a bukowski poem so badly
that i never wanted to hear
hank’s work again.
i remember stealing a no smoking sign
some guy telling me to fuck off on hudson street
and passing out on the r train home
after picking a fight with my wife.
but, dear,
i don’t remember you.
and come to think of it
what’s worse is i don’t remember
the poem that you read
and dedicated to me
last friday night, either.

Poem of the Day 01.08.09

dan (why haven’t you called?)

dan
why haven’t you called?
we’ve been waiting three days
and the cats are starting
to get worried.

dan
did you get lost in
manhattan?

dan
why haven’t you called?
is it because i got drunk
last friday on cornelia street
and you bought both bottles of wine
and dinner?

dan
did you get lost in
queens?

dan
why haven’t you called?
is it because i ate that cupcake
off the dirty street?
is it because i grabbed your ass
mistaking it for my wife’s?

dan
did you get lost in
the bronx?

dan
why haven’t you called?
is it because the world has you down?
because of the job?
because of dreams and children?
because of art and white lofts
in soho?

dan
did you get lost in
staten island?

dan
why haven’t you called?
is it because i got the hiccups
and cried in the white horse
restroom?
is it because we left you at
the subway station
too early on a friday night?

dan
did you get lost in
brooklyn?

dan
why haven’t you called?
because we’ve tried you
four times
and have been worried sick
if you’re all right.

dan
did you get lost in
jersey?

dan
why haven’t you called?
the holidays are over and the moon
is rich
outside they are threatening snow
and solace
and we’d love to hear your voice.

dan
give us a call
when you get the chance.

Poem of the Day 01.07.09

after li po and fleet foxes

and the first song tells me
to come down from the mountain
because spring is here
and i think how i haven’t written
a poem in over a week
nor have i thought about writing
but instead have pondered
the trappings of the old winter doldrums
the tragedy of being newly sober for one day
the end of this damnable year
and the burgeoning evidence rising
against the pleasures of the next.
but something about the simplicity
of the message really got me
and i forgot all of that for a time.
and on the cold brooklyn street
with the sun rising over the east
traffic building up along 4th avenue
into an ugly swirl of horns and exhaust
insomnia burning my eyes
and my belly hungry for anything
i had to smile and listen intently
to the music echo off the storefronts
and in my ears, rattling my wicked soul,
thinking i might be so happy in this moment
i could reach up and try to hug the moon
before it fades into the creamy orange
illumination of the day’s first light
and i start drowning in the bile
of old wine and this life again.

POem of the day 01.06.09

well...

i got to the slaughtered lamb
about 4:45 and i was nervous
so i went in there only
because they were promising
four-dollar drafts, which is actually good
for the heart of the west village
and it was cold out.
so i stayed for two then went back out
onto w 4th to look for ally.
i went down cornelia and then up bleecker
and down jones street having a bob dylan fantasy
but instead of going back into the slaughtered lamb
i went down cornelia again
and this time waited for ally.
while there a waiter and waitress
came outside to remove tables
and looked at me in my green jacket
and steelers snowcap and one said
to the other “i think tonight is going
to be a strange night,”
which i didn’t know how to take
which was about the time ally showed up.
we were early anyway so it was back
to the slaughtered lamb for more beer and to warm up.
i was getting hungry but i wouldn’t eat.
they wouldn’t let us in the cornelia street cafe
basement when we got back
so we stood in the cold and watched
moneyed people leaving old village apartments
that used to belong to artists long since gone
their memory making the village
the unaffordable, posh mess that it is currently
and right then we spotted dan coming
down the street in his 18th century jacket
and fluorescent military pants
so the three of us went inside the cornelia street cafe
and ordered a $35 bottle of boggle petite sirah
(which dan paid for)
but that was about the time they let us all
downstairs for the reading.
(did i mention this was about a reading?).
we stood in a long line,
me a couple people ahead of dan and ally,
who had our glasses and bottle of petite sirah,
and i paid our entrance fee
$7 each plus a free glass of the house red or white
(i chose us the red).
we took these seats in this little cavern theater
as people filed in.
overhead they had a cd playing of bukowski
reading poems over eerie cello music
because the night was a tribute reading to hank
and i kept saying “i wonder what bukowski would
make of all of this?”
and dan kept pouring the wine
and ally kept pouring the wine
and i kept pouring the wine
and soon people got up to read bukowski poems
or their own concoctions.
i couldn’t tell if any of it was any good or not
because i was nervous and hungry and getting drunk
and i’d spent the whole day debating whether or not
i was even going to read at this thing
but in the end chose going
over sitting at home with a bottle of scotch
and listening to the neighbor’s television again.
and dan kept pouring the wine
and ally kept pouring the wine
and i kept pouring the wine and clutching my new
book of poems.
soon the wine was gone and dan got us another bottle
(which he paid for)
while i waited my turn to approach the stage.
i got up to take a piss, and for some reason i ripped
a no smoking sign off the men’s room door.
it is sitting here next to me now.
well, anyway, soon it was my turn to read
and i got up and read two poems, only after i pushed
the book and the press i’m on.
one of the poems was about fucking my wife
in a public restroom on new year’s eve
and the other was about getting drunk and crying
in a buffalo college bar.
when i was done we stayed for the rest of the reading
dan pouring the wine
ally pouring the wine
me pouring the wine
until it was gone, the reading done, and we left.
i had these fliers in my hand that i made up for the evening,
and walking along the village i kept handing them to people
shouting “free poetry!” and “war is over!”
and some people took them
someone told me to fuck myself.
then dan or i or ally, one of us wanted
a cupcake, so we stopped at the magnolia cupcake place
and i ordered us one vanilla and two chocolate
and as soon as we were back outside in the cold
ally knocked my vanilla onto the pavement
but i picked it up and ate it anyway.
then we went over to the white horse
where we had two rounds of beer
and a table full of sausage and wings and fries
and burgers and chicken sandwiches
and photos of dylan thomas and bob dylan fantasies.
next to us was an old actor eating a hot dog and fries.
he had plastic bags on his feet
in order to keep his tattered shoes from numbing him
in the cold.
he gave ally his business card
and i paid for his dinner before going into the bathroom
to choke back these tears that just hit me on the spot.
when i got back out the hiccups started, so i went outside,
leaving my second beer
and the new york city night was beautiful and cold
and i thought a lot about where i’d gone and where i’d been.
that’s when ally came out to join me.
then dan.
ally and i didn’t know who paid for dinner
(probably dan).
then dan walked us to the train in the cold
looking sad because i was drunk and couldn’t hang out.
it was only 10:30 p.m. in america and i was finished.
so we hugged him goodbye and descended
into the w 4th train station to catch a d train.
then ally said something
and i said something
and i knew we were going to have one of those
drunken arguments we sometimes get into after too much.
so i closed my eyes
and waited for the wind, the train, and somewhere
were i could sit down
for just a minute or two
before we ran over everything again
and again.

Poem of the day 01.05.09

here we go again....

the way the new year crumbles

with millions
of idiots
uptown in
the freezing wind
waiting for the hollywood ending
to these twelve months of hell
waiting for the ball to drop
and the other foot
to come down
while bland pop
music plays all over manhattan
and old idols are fittingly
put out to pasture
and you and i, we are
in a 2nd avenue
mexican restaurant
men’s restroom
in the throws of passion
our pants down, fucking
your hands pressed against
cold gray brick
hovering over a pale toilet
my right hand
clutching the wet sink
high on wine and beer
moaning and pulling hair
and hushing each other
while a girl in the restroom
next to us
fixes her make-up and sings
auld lang syne
as someone pounds drunkenly
down the steps
getting ready to knock on the thin
green-painted, wooden door
that i have my feet
braced up against
to barricade
to enhance the night
and deepen the thrust
of this fleeting moment
in a year we’ve already forgotten.