It is interesting and sucky to me how writer's block on one piece often leads to a breakthrough in another. As I struggled to write my next band write up due two days ago, I finished a challenge set forth by a writer friend weeks ago. He asked me to write a poem about "anything, it just has to be something you're experiencing right now." This is for you, Ryan. Your move.
Around 9 AM
I am composed of nicotine and coffee
to make up for lack of breakfast
and last night's beer.
After midnight I am mumbled lyrics
and smiles that come too easy.
Right now I am thirsty for words,
hungry for a painkiller in the form of
somebody else's problems.
You inhale my condolences,
taking them deep into your
already charred lungs.
My whiskey whispers spill into
your tonic stare and we become
bubbly yet bitter
sweet and smooth,
a deadly cocktail
of apathy and boredom,
blurring the edges of
rules we used to follow.
Past the stage and
away from prying eyes
we are drunk
on each other
and this intoxicated transgression
won't go unnoticed
because we are all guilty,
every acquaintance an accomplice,
every patron a witness,
every shallow hello a new charge
on a rap sheet of tipsy crimes,
but this bar is the only place
where arraignment never comes.
If the sky weren't overcast
we'd make it that way
with our endless breaths of cigarette smoke.
If we weren't sick of going home
or running away
we'd quit standing around.
We wait for the crack
of some unseen cue ball
to smash into our formation,
breaking up the patterns
we squeeze ourselves into,
sending us racing toward pockets
of comforting darkness.
Instead bright headlights
wash over us
exposing our empty hands
and tired eyes
as we stand in this dingy parking lot
searching for one more shot
at belonging
after last call.
Your fingers interlace with mine
but I lean on my car
instead of you.
