Been a while. Something I’m working on:
She was beautiful, the idea I fished out of toilets all molded mildewed and shitted over, the sticky crust of the stressy flaked skin stuck to the front door while I looked out at an empty parking lot, nah, nah, she was beautiful, she was meaningful, she was all semblances and sorts of important to my putting on pants after rolling out of bed, the idea I fished out more toilets, more windows to be cleaned, when someone great is gone, welcome to the jungle, whatever else the bartenders concocted on expected but maybe not so expected playlist, oh just to fuck all high heaven. That’s what I thought and all.
And then other times thinking of no no no, this bar of ours is worth all and all, worth us being us and falling sweatily asleep and shaking over figuring out deliveries of property tax of tax of tax of salaries and into the mirrors, cleaning mirrors, our eyes droopy from falling sweatily barely asleep the night before and on and all and if we could just drop the mop and rag and kick down the front door and run outside into oncoming traffic, where, bar be no more and we’d finally get sleep at last.
But she was beautiful. And I made no shaky stressy qualms over that NOW, certainly, but I meant more to turn more to the past, when she and I and two bottles made four but three came to the ultimate conclusion that it was most certainly absolutely to our advantage, all financially and drinkally and spiritually to open a bar, our bar, our bar for our people sort of bar. And so we did. After a few more nights of us and the bottle and bottle and bottles, and also after shaky stressy qualmy nights too and two and fourty thousand million it seemed. But let’s see back to when she was beautiful, said I upon seeing all back and all:
“Now, been thinking,” said beautiful she.
“Bout what and all?”
“Bout bar and all. We should make one.”
“Like how?”
“Smarty, we should build and own and make one from scratch. It’d be
ours. Our bar for our people sort of bar.”
This I found to be the hottest, magnified every which way by a couple
of things, from the wavy in and outs of her dirty blonde, to
dimplecheeks and if she’d been wearing a long necklace, that all in
her cleavage I was sure and all and
“Like, from our sorta scene comes…our scene. That sorta place and
all,” she said, eyeing the top of my forehead.
“Don’t have the money,” said I, eyes up again.
“Smarty, be smart and figure and then we’d figure out how to get it
all, I suppose. I dunno. But we should, you know.”
“We should open a bar.”
“From scratch.”
“By getting money and all and then wham, we got ourselves a bar.”
“That’s ours for people like us, and we’d have green and wood and low
globe lights and candlelights and shhh. Don’t tell anyone how cool our
bar’d be.”
“Um. I won’t.”
“Fuck off, you will cause you would.”
“Sure.”
