Scribbler's Cafe

Bathroom stall discourse on womanhood, Bush's lack of WMD and Jimie's penis. The woman at the bar with the velvet chocker is married and oh God how this music infects me, makes me crazy. wanna dance. wanna move. wanna yell. One more glass of red. Lock me in the stall. I'm not fit for public consumption and the bass won't quit and the horn keeps licking me up can't stop my pen. Low base notes whisper about… get another glass of red, hold my pen as I clap and oh crap I have no resistance. And I must remember that the woman at the bar with the velvet choker is married because that chain is around my own neck and my love is a thousand miles away and I feel that bass and that red and I am red and pent. I cannot stop the ink, my mind, my red blood flowing. I did not ask for this susceptibility. Jazz. Blues. What it is. It is and I am blue blue notes and red, forgive me love. I cannot be what I am not. I cannot be not impressed. Not impassioned.

Blues man says: I was headed to New York to be a star, but I got drunk so they kicked me off in Chicago. That’s okay. The flow and the music are good. Woman writes on the bathroom stall: I love Bocky and I want her in my life and world. Love, Caitlin. Love’s quick curves of the pen make me… Woman says: Hey, Pammy, gotta go. Jimmy sez move and I gotta work when the sun comes up.


Then the horns again. And when I clap I can’t help but clap to a beat and forgive me if I can’t dip and sway because my body is paralyzed by my leaping heart. Oh how I am rendered an imbecile, sobbing in my booth next to my dearest friend with the tanned peach skin. I need to step outside and breathe, but dare not call attention to my weakness. The other drones sit and sway and do not cry so why should I? I need to relieve this pressure but there will be no relief, no little death for me. So I clasp my hands together tight until they burn. I need a shotgun, a bolt of lightening, a falling piano. Oh please, give me my little death and let the light clear away this heady desire.
 

posted by Scribbler @ Thursday, July 15, 2004