Nice to be back amongst the smoke,
The smell of spilled beer and the murmuring of the strangely disaffected
No investment bankers wooing the new intern for a meaningless "I remember my
frat boy daze" screw
No cackle of office girls celebrating the empty-headed birthday party
of-the-week carrying on like newly inebriated sorority sisters who giggle at
the word "dildo"
No three-dollar cappuccinos, No "contentment in acquiring material
possessions" silly banter ... No none of that.
No let it all fade away into the realm of antimatter. They just don’t matter.
I am here now.
Back to what made it real before. Back to the basics of the antiestablishment
groove. Back to the people that fall through the cracks of the stereotypical.
Where people with rage, passion, and angst come to quell the demons of the
ordinary
Traditional revelries, beer, pool, bar food, lit up with music that is too
loud or too angry. But still endured with an I-don’t-give-a-fuck glare.
Where the carefully crafted Disney beginnings have given way to out of
control Jerry Springer endings.
Where words spoken in a back room may be heard above the flick of lighters
breathing life into a new addiction
Words over the clinking of empty beer glasses against vacant bottles. The
sound resonates like a spurned lonely ex-lover. Whom you would like call to
on one more time but the numbers on the bar napkin have faded - and after all
the glass is empty.
Poetry is home
Nice to be back amongst the smoke.
