Friday, December 28, 2012

Frank, you magnificent bastard

It seems and it always
seems that the things
and the things have lost their
innocence through repetition,
what I make of situations
comes out repeated
and said again
in motions
like hands that clench
after I’ve already
told you off,
if you see
what I said,

It seems arrogance to assume that there
is always something left

We could be just standing
There are just standing there
in motions of the head that look
over the shoulder just to see who just walked in

and again I adjust my seat
and wonder why
it is that people
thought Sinatra
knew what to do when
a heartache he’d never let heal
fires up again, giving him the edge of hurt and angst
and a sorrow that made him the envy of
every guy who wished he could just
keep getting
laid no matter how many times
he was slapped in the face at
the end of so many evenings
in a tavern
where the juke is stacked
with sad stories you
have to pay to hear.

Sinatra, I remember,
let’s do this like Frank,
so I light a cigarette,
grab my drink
and wave to you
to offer you a seat at the
mahogany bar,
so glad to see you
that I wave too hard and slap
the woman next to me.
She drops her drink,
and her husband drops me,
and I stare at the ceiling, Formica gleaming
in a blue light of
faux grotto interior,
“Frank, you magnificent bastard,
what was it you wanted to be
when you grew up?”