"I feel the most at home here, amber glass half full on a sticky round table, the leather pillow of a booth beneath me, the hum of people in the red lighted space alsways below a shrieking voice and beating kettle drum//Writing on a napkin, finally alone--am I breathing or crying, writing poetry, memoir or a suicide note?//The paintings are all oily blues and whites on black felt. The paintings show an Indian on a horse raising his spear, a young boy bending his bright-haired head in prayer, a crudely formed bottle of 'Cerveza.' The paintings, I want to steal them all.// It's getting late, and since they left the basement bar is filling up. I wonder if taking up a whole booth is excessive.// Live commentary on the record is like Kerouac reading American haiku.
The glass, now empty/sits red filled/ on the table//
The boy, now man/sits empty/ at the table//
(and some seasonal/turn shit)//
The Luchador printed on/ the table leers/ The busboy clears our/ three glasses"
#writing #seattle #napkinpoetry #poetry #citypoets
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