Café de Nuit

The world is such a bore.
I look at all the blank
expressions here
at Delaney’s Tap Room,
where Jake—the local artist—
makes several incisions
with his knife upon
his hand, letting the blood
drip onto this white bandage
of cloth, wiping the blood
with it, while I wonder
what’s the point of all this—
I guess it’s better than
being a junkie—another
nasty habit that he quit...
Another guy says all
my joking about gay shit
makes him nervous,
so I better keep away...

The world is such a bore—
these overpriced drinks,
these empty conversations
about this and that
and nothing much at all—
I hear the chicken wings
are excellent here.
My friend is doing crack.
A few days earlier some girl
would let him eat her pussy
in exchange for xanax,
though he never got a blowjob.

The world is such a bore.
I talk to Marshall—a homeless
old man, who spends his
monthly checks on booze
and cat food for his kitties,
while sleeping in the graveyard.
He has a temporary place to stay
right now. He tells me he’s
the luckiest man in the world.
Somehow I don’t believe him.

The world is such a bore.
Here’s John who came out of jail
several months ago. He now works
with his hands, laying shingles
on roofs of houses.
I hear Pam is now in jail for writing
phony checks, she used to fuck
for drugs and money—two hundred
dollars for a full relief.
Jeff highly recommends her.
He says he’s getting married
to his latest girlfriend,
but I doubt it—he never stayed with
anyone for too long.

The world is such a bore,
as I stand here, observing this
pool game—the only thing that
seems to matter here.
Sometimes I show them my poems,
but there is such a chasm
between my vision
and what’s in front of me—
this crazy circus of fucked-up people
with their fucked-up lives
and fucked-up loves,
these people, who are
deaf and blind
to anything of beauty and of meaning.

I have another beer,
as this endless game continues,
and the jukebox plays
the same old song, the same old song...


       July 13, 2002   
     --Alexander Shaumyan