Five Poems.

So I had a shitty night a week or so ago. I hung out with some friends and it ended prematurely, like all the love I have ever known, and I was immensely upset by this. I was drunk, and slightly vulnerable to my own brand of logic that seems to creep up on me when I am drunk.

After a fight with a different good friend about their lack of sympathy (fool that I am), I went to the bar, fool that I am, and spent what at the time seemed to be too much money but which was actually less than ten dollars. As I've stated, I was already drunk. It all seemed so damn apocalyptic, and I felt apoplectic.

So I asked the wait staff there (the bar is named Skylark, and I quite enjoy it, although they are slightly full of themselves) if I might borrow something to write on, having left my notebook at a friend's house. I received five pieces of paper and wrote five poems. They are not deftly written, but I do get a kick out of the limited space I had to work with. If the line spacing seems like Bukowski, please be aware that I typed these out the same way I wrote them in the bar, and also that the man frequented bars himself and probably wrote on napkins a great deal. And be aware that I am ok with that comparison, and writing an introduction that is nearly as long as the poems collected. With no further TLDR:

One:
I write on a grubby
green table.
Nothing can ever make you
happy.
"I can't make you happy,"
she says. I agree.
It's a shitty proposition,
trying to find happiness
on a grubby green
table.
Too many beers spilt here.
Too many tragic moments.
The bar, here is where
Hollywood claims people
come to celebrate.
It is where we come
to feel destroyed.
The real customers.

Two:
I don't know how I came
here, grasping for something.
I'm not welcome.
Even my ID, my money
(and cash, too)
will not earn me
creedence.
At the bar alone.
The bartenders cast
dirty looks at me
writing in the corner.
A table of seven is
seated to my right.
One of them falls out
of his seat.
The others help him
up. They get no
dirty glance.

Three:
I am the salamander
of solicitation.
"Please!" I tell
them, "I have
changed and you can
talk to me, but place
no faith."
They expect what I do
not ask for.
"Oh, you need money."
"Finally need a friend?"
"Revenge is coming. Not
from me, but watch
out!"
I drink more.
It tastes good.

Four:
How I wish a beautiful
woman would come
visit me.
Ask, "Why do you write
alone? There are 40
other people in this bar.
Make a friend other than
a pen, some paper."
I want a kind woman,
to fuck her.
I am the worst kind of
wreckage.
There is no
redemption
for me.

Five:
The last sheet of paper
given to me by the
bar.
Whatever shall I say?
I used to like dinosaurs.
The I liked music that
was angry, then with
emotion, then dinosaurs
again.
Finally, I liked myself.
And congratulations!
I finally got a kick
out of writing in
bars.
Lucky
me.

These are very personal and I hope you, as friends rather than just patrons, will enjoy them carefully, with respect for the people inside them besides me.