mrs. falcha
I phoned you, Mrs. Falcha,
but no one was home.
after placing the phone down,
I got out into the
drive way,
feeling the late afternoon sun trail the
evening clouds, the only two stars
out, the wandering moon behind me,
and put the car on reverse and
drove out of the parking spot
and then put it on drive
and drove out into the world.
downtown, I entered a familiar
bar and lit my second to last cigarette.
the bartender never knew how to keep his mouth
shut when I came in. he always knew how to
push my buttons.
why I even bothered to come here
had nothing to do with the people
or the bartender or
the want of humanity rubbing its dirty hands on
my open wounds.
it was the cheap drinks
the good women
and the smell of bad smoke.
"hey, Will, you still working at H.E.B.?"
the bartender told me.
his name was Jimmy Too-Clean,
for always being too clean when he
came to work or poured a drink
or anything, for that matter.
"yeah, I still do. it's the same old thing."
"I heard you were going to get the shaft from someone who works with you."
"You probably heard wrong. I'm the only one that does anything around there," I
said, and afterwards, I ordered my drink - a whiskey on the rocks, slow on the rocks.
"yeah, yeah . . . probably," he said, pouring my drink, wiping his dirty hands
dirty face
dirty mouth.
he was a dirty motherfucker who always
cleaned his fucking
mouth when he
spoke.
"how's your woman," said Jimmy.
"she's out of town."
"must be lonely right now, huh?"
"the best triumph in solitude. and when loneliness does become too much, there's always the drink and some good pair of legs to warm your heart."
"yeah, yeah . . . probably."
I ordered another glass and
paid my bill
all of it
and left.
before I stepped foot out,
he shouted behind me:
"YOU MAY WANT TO CHECK UP WITH YOUR WORK AND SEE IF YOU STILL HAVE IT TOMORROW."
yeah, yeah . . . probably
not.
I drove my car back into its
solitude and sat in there for a couple minutes before
swallowing a ball of spit and mucus
and walked up that black peeling staircase up to my room.
I unlocked the door
and was greeted by four new messages on
my answering machine.
one was from my editor
another from Joey from work
the next from my mom
and finally
Mrs. Falcha.
I returned the call to my
editor
and deleted the other messages.
I've never felt better in my
entire existence than I do now
standing before
the Gods and laughing
laughing laughing
at the people outside
my window.
but no one was home.
after placing the phone down,
I got out into the
drive way,
feeling the late afternoon sun trail the
evening clouds, the only two stars
out, the wandering moon behind me,
and put the car on reverse and
drove out of the parking spot
and then put it on drive
and drove out into the world.
downtown, I entered a familiar
bar and lit my second to last cigarette.
the bartender never knew how to keep his mouth
shut when I came in. he always knew how to
push my buttons.
why I even bothered to come here
had nothing to do with the people
or the bartender or
the want of humanity rubbing its dirty hands on
my open wounds.
it was the cheap drinks
the good women
and the smell of bad smoke.
"hey, Will, you still working at H.E.B.?"
the bartender told me.
his name was Jimmy Too-Clean,
for always being too clean when he
came to work or poured a drink
or anything, for that matter.
"yeah, I still do. it's the same old thing."
"I heard you were going to get the shaft from someone who works with you."
"You probably heard wrong. I'm the only one that does anything around there," I
said, and afterwards, I ordered my drink - a whiskey on the rocks, slow on the rocks.
"yeah, yeah . . . probably," he said, pouring my drink, wiping his dirty hands
dirty face
dirty mouth.
he was a dirty motherfucker who always
cleaned his fucking
mouth when he
spoke.
"how's your woman," said Jimmy.
"she's out of town."
"must be lonely right now, huh?"
"the best triumph in solitude. and when loneliness does become too much, there's always the drink and some good pair of legs to warm your heart."
"yeah, yeah . . . probably."
I ordered another glass and
paid my bill
all of it
and left.
before I stepped foot out,
he shouted behind me:
"YOU MAY WANT TO CHECK UP WITH YOUR WORK AND SEE IF YOU STILL HAVE IT TOMORROW."
yeah, yeah . . . probably
not.
I drove my car back into its
solitude and sat in there for a couple minutes before
swallowing a ball of spit and mucus
and walked up that black peeling staircase up to my room.
I unlocked the door
and was greeted by four new messages on
my answering machine.
one was from my editor
another from Joey from work
the next from my mom
and finally
Mrs. Falcha.
I returned the call to my
editor
and deleted the other messages.
I've never felt better in my
entire existence than I do now
standing before
the Gods and laughing
laughing laughing
at the people outside
my window.