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.