Friday, April 25, 2008

Like, Go, Man

Shouts and screams from rolled up windows tells me it's the end of august in a parking lot behind a beach bar that's about to get robbed, and then shut down by the cops for serving minors, ahem,
everyone is in a hurry to get ripped and ripped off, jerked off and jacked around. ravaged and raped and taped to the side of a car on the way home along the side streets down alleys in residential neighborhoods that shadow the free way on the thought that police are at the beach listening for shouts and screams from inside rolled up windows, burglars trying doorknobs,

This is what I heard, “give it to me, godddd dammnit all, give me allllllllllllllllllllll your love, babykins, I know you want it”

“you're a slob and a drunk and you're disgusting, get off my foot , get your hand back where I can see it, GET OUT OF MY CAR!!, JESUS, what the fuck are you about??” “ohhhhhhhhhhh, baby, don't be so cold like a cone with no cream to lick from the rim, just love my seething sweet thing and let's be a noise only god hears on a good night..” “Watch the hand, grub boy, GET OUT OF MY CAR!! I'm going to crown your buddy Frank for setting this up, FUCK OFF! GET YOUR DRUNK FACE OUT OF HERE…”

It's a night of extremes because the car bounces in place, next to a dumpster, as the bars empty and bartenders check their keys, dishwashers hose down dishes and waitresses do another line of speed to make the night come home faster as patrons roll over each other, going from hugs to handshakes and all manner of gestures that melt into wars that are declared and over without a shot being fired, the moon sweeps the street that fills with loud jokes that wakes the neighbors with swear words and car alarms that make the punch lines a home invasion,

there's nothing else to do after the little and big hands fall where they do each night about right now,

Cops have their smokes, their batons, riot guns, their back up bottles,

The cars all rock with ignition, roaming hands in the middle of what is now becoming morning, some fingers trace the line of a thigh , other fingers fold together,

it's the end of the summer, and there is no more spending money.

4 comments:

Dawn Coyote said...

I worked in the Midnight Sun Hotel in Dawson City - not in the lounge, which was semi-civilized, but in the tavern, which was like a pot on high heat always on the verge of boiling over.

That's what this narrative reminds me of: that bar on the fringe of the world. If I'd lived on the other side of the border, it would still have been in some border town, but hot not cold. I always liked the edge.

Dawn Coyote said...

I liked the other poem, too. It reminded me of one I wrote in second year, and I went looking for it, and then I went to see the new Harold and Kumar movie with my 15 year-old nephew and 10 of his friends. That was interesting. And then I came back to leave a comment, and the poem was gone.

I like you reading. You need a haircut.

Dawn Coyote said...

Ha!

Ted Burke said...

I'll repost it. I just got a hair cut a couple of weeks ago. So it goes.