I'm with some other punters on a miserably rainy night,
after bouncing around to a few comedy clubs to see friends perform
and now our wet butts are inhabiting barstools
in the backroom of a bookstore bar somewhere on the Lower East Side.
We are all soaked with some kind of sadness,
and each of us own it differently,
which is to be expected within a group of artists,
writers, musicians, comedians and lizards kickers.
life is not that big of deal, someone says,
and we all agree, ordering another round of booze,
biscuits, bags of blow and licks upon bloody-knuckle licks,
thus making the forgettable memorable until hangover.
being a bunch of disparate lonesome losers
is great and all, especially because we are winners,
following dreams, getting paid to do what we love,
but leaving behind things like love and neverness.
I'm looking at a cat kill a mouse in the corner,
and one of my tribesmen hit on a gross whore,
and behind the bar is a mirror, which with I try to avoid eye contact,
while we all tease death, poking it with a stick.
Between the mission and the madness,
we are all allowed to lose control and get lost,
and some of us don't want to be found;
I like the rain, the escape and the middle of May.