when the seamstress sews the fabric of existence into a fashion

well here i am again

wait, shit, i don’t know where i am

 

the girl serving me drinks

is wearing jean shorts

and a midriff

with a single tattoo

covering her right arm

 

talking to me

as if what we talk about matters

 

plans

dreams

destinations

 

i remain silent so i can remain

tonight i just can’t drink enough

 

she tells me that life can throw you a curve

when you don’t even know it is your turn at bat

 

i smile as if she just said something meaningful

thinking of jim morrison’s words,

“could any hell be more real

then here and now?”

 

she goes to attend to another drunk

i grab my cell phone

and change my voice mail to say,

 

“i had a dream once i could fly

and to the end of the universe i soared

but all i found were rafters in the sky

supporting a dome and nothing more

there i was without reason or cause

too bewildered to do ought but pause

so i returned to our haunted planet

of dying waves and shifting granite

nothing to herald, nothing to quote

upon awaking i picked up a pen and wrote:

 

you’ve reached a random number given to a random phone on a random day for the empty essence of existence is exemplified by meaningless motion of provision for temporal needs and prolonged by a series of escapes. if you’re still convinced your message is of consequence then at the beep leave a brief but detailed analysis of our complacency with the sufficiency of pleasure in satiating humanities’ existential plight”

 

she returns

makes me an irish car bomb

“on the house”

 

i fold my hands on the bar in front of me

look in her eyes as she resumes talking

and try not to flinch

 

***