by Ryan Jesena
Monday, January 14, 2002
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The last battle of the night is always
the best. The cold hard bottle pasted
against the palm of my right hand like
a revolver; and Iím spinning around
the room, getting dizzy with the men
who grown blue eyes that tell stories,
and that cower in the dark.
The chair on this bar is getting older
faster than me; letting the night sliver
its way back into my heart, I let it walk
around a bit; feeling the lies mix in
with the tension. We held our hearts
on a string, dragging around the floor.
Then, like the other drunks, we spiral
in to our own little regrets, falling off
our miserable waterfalls, watching
grasshoppers eat blades of grass, talking
about love like angry blind mice; we
are slowly dying, and we know it.
The television is sending out images
that are going too fast for our eyes.
The girls are getting younger, and prettier,
and we are getting older, and uglier, by the
day. We try to laugh it off, but the alcohol
stings like cold venom.
Then, the bartender will kick us out,
threatening our bodies with baseball bats,
and broken bottles. And we will slowly walk
out of the bar, and smoke our last cigarette
of the night, hoping to capture our last breathe
that will be enough to take us home.
When we get home, we will stretch out
in a cheap bed, that stomps our backs, and
pillows that look like tombstones; and be
buried in our scars and lies. We stare in to
the ceiling, and we frown a little bit, knowing
that we have lost the battle, but we know
the war is not yet over.