Cut out early. Duck inside. Hide away.
Sit the afternoon. Drink cold Pabst
for two bucks a pint. Listen to Sonny
and Otis and Miles. Listen to blues
on a real jukebox the bartender feeds
with till quarters. Listen to the idle chatter.
Listen to bullshit stories with a nugget of truth.
Listen to the 9 Ball break. Listen and write
it all down. Write down the absent, accidental
poems. The ones at the bottom of pint glasses,
bubbling up in the fry-grease, read in the wet ring
left on the bar. Tom Waits calls them out,
lone-wolf growling poems into the room
to bark and shimmer. To strip down and shout,
writhe around a little. Feel them. Feel it:
this is the place you become famous.
//Flavor note: written on a bar napkin. Of course.//