Thursday, March 24, 2005

from the journal of the fish

still from way back in November 2003. it's a mighty journal of years.
this one's going up basically unrevised because i'm amused by its wandering.
comes of writing in a bar.

Dock Street November

Like Abbot & Costello, my mike yr mike
(Paging Doctor--)
he's standing in the Roman wall
holding up the arcade

What's been done to this series of arches?
Why are they stranded on this
divefloor chessboard & where
are my rooks to clear you
"like a snowplow"?
(Paging Doctor--)

With the horns in a tin can like that
he sounds like he believes there's an angel--
he sounds like Orson Welles in a weather balloon--
"I could sing Edith Piaf through this"
he giggled & looked
diagonally into the light.

"Actually I'm right in front of you.
If you don't know I'm in front of you,
how are you a doctor?"


& the bathroom looks like a mental institution,
all pinwheels & the wrong kinds of lines
etched with slurs & little hates as if they were
Really Intended--I hope
it's as old as it seems in there, &
the mirror makes me nervous.

Certain bars should have kept smoking alive
to cover that sulfuric rotten-egg presence
but They never listen, do They.

I'm listening, are you. Listening.
& I was looking at you.
"Revolution, that's easy enough."

Those lights on the ceiling are the skin of an alien girl
& you're there, like a headline on the brick.

I was Out Back
when they left, wind whipping
like a god-cry or something portentous
frantically trying to get my attention--
all helter-skelter in the echoing hall--
look at me, these faces I'm getting stuck on.

Did I tell you that in the alley
the chainlink fence hanging on for dear life
frames elevated fire hydrants
held up to motion-sensor lights?
That's a lot going on, isn't it.
"Let's do Beautiful."

In that corner, insidious in its
Novemberesque nostalgia,
a music box chimes over what seems to be
a cemetary--need I say more?
but I do, & something smells of burning.

A trio of undercover cops
leered at me
as they ducked drunkenly
out the filigreed door
up the stairs
all the way
over there--
all shoulders I am twitch-cringing--

I should say something here
about Fair-weather Fans,
all those musicians
plunging in & out
of Sydney seeking endless summers
or Staten Island dives
over feedback & spires
I saw them--him--you--
I did.

later i brought a dear friend to this bar for her birthday & they served her rusty beer & vinegar wine. i had warned her it was a dive, but even so.
i don't think it exists anymore.

2 little fish:

Blogger oldben swam up to say...

it does still exist and i'm sure it's still a dive...probably even worse of one. ::shudder:: dive is actually giving it too much credit. it's just a hole.

8:22 PM  
Blogger mysfit swam up to say...

i wonder if the beer is still rusty. ::shudder, as well:: i know they said it was a "red" but that was ridiculous and a hole is also giving it too much credit, sewer might be more appropriate.

10:29 AM  

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