two scotches, five beers, and counting
is just enough to float through a day
like this one
sitting in a bar and being hit on by a lonely blonde
who keeps checking her cell phone for no one
she wants to know if that was my wife
yes, i say
how long have you been married?
two scotches, five beers, and counting
almost six years, i say
she asks more questions
this is beginning to feel like the spanish inquisition
i don’t remember what it’s like to be hit on
at the other end of the bar
the bartender is getting sympathy from
a drunk model and a professional soccer player
at least that’s who he tells me those loud whores are
the blonde tells my wife that her last boyfriend was zeus
the one she took home last night, well, at least
he didn’t rape her
they didn’t even fuck
not that night
not the next morning
he’s the guy she keeps checking her cell phone for
two scotches, five beers, and counting
the bartender buys us two free rounds because we listen
to his story about his uncle dying of heart disease
shit, he starts crying in the bar
while i’ve been given the task of watching the blonde’s purse
he’s crying and popping alka selzter because he
got drunk on bourbon and beer last night
crying over his uncle
he says his uncle was like a father to him
taught him how to be a man
then he worries if you’re allowed to be a man
in the 21st century
i tell him yes, but they’ll work like hell
to take that away from you
i feel like robert bly, saying shit like that
he says he keeps having to visit the porcelain god
and don’t i know all about that man, i think
this death
these scenarios have happened to me, us, twice this week
at another bar, carrie told us that her mother had just died
she was a tough bitch, except for the cancer
my wife tells us we’re banshees
banshees howl before death and spend their time
around the bereaved
i tell my wife that we spend our time howling
at a neighbor who won’t turn her television down
then we hit the bars for these stories
these people who always seem to find us
in an otherwise crowded room
two scotches, five beers, and counting
i think of carrie two nights later, drunk in the bar
yelling at her boyfriend, larry
she’s mad, stabbing at cold chicken and broccoli
from a styrofoam dish
she tells him he gets drunk three times a day
but she only gets drunk once
it’s sad
sad because we’re only allowed to get drunk once in a day
carrie tells larry to fuck himself
go blow yourself, she says, because i ain’t doing it no more
i wonder what carrie expects
being thirty-six years old and taking up with a fifty-five year old
bar flunky
that’s kind of asking for it, i think
two scotches, five beers, and counting
i hope larry is getting head from carrie, from someone
i hope someone doesn’t steal this blonde’s purse
while the bartender cries
i have my eyes on the old creepy guy in the next seat over
he’s checking his phone and laughing at nothing
if anyone is going to steal that purse
it’s going to be him and i know it
the bar whores laugh
the soccer player and the model
the bartender wipes his eyes and winks at us
before he goes down to tend to them
i hate the way they slur their words
some drunk women have that way about them
he buys them beer and they buy him a shot
everyone drinks it down as blondie plays on the jukebox
two scotches, five beers, and counting
banshees my wife says again
i tell her let’s leave after the next one
before my songs come on the juke
before elvis and the doors and
chuck berry and two david bowie songs
but after the blonde comes back and i don’t have to watch her purse
maybe after her story about her getting ass-fucked by poseidon
maybe after the not-rapist calls
i just don’t know anymore
i don’t know how any of us do it
how any of us get through
every day just seems so fucking long
two scotches, five beers, and counting
tables full of madness and the dead
streets full of the sick at heart
i see a girl on the r train wearing sunglasses in the night
a beautiful girl
she’s either middle eastern or italian
i want to slap her
who does she think she is for being so young?
for having this ugly world by the balls
i think of larry without sex
of carrie without out her mother and love
the blonde waiting for a phone call or another me to come strolling in
i think of the bartender getting a pity fuck from two women
of barstools empty and mouths without anything useful to say
of neighbors huddling in front of loud televisions
because there is nothing else
and there is nothing else to think about anymore
i think of you and me, and the way moonlight reflects
off our faces
the two new wine bottles that we had to purchase because
two scotches, five beers, and counting is not enough
it’s never enough.
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