I thought by leisurely sitting too close
Along with our elbow skin sticking
To the same dark-stained wood
Along with our bar stools squeaking
Against the same backdrop of ice crackling
Of a jukebox warbling
Of voices combining
A creation, this honeycomb of layered noise
In the midst of such modern clamor
Our unfamiliar arms would touch
For a moment, feeling your light
Skin upon my skin
The faintest hairs of your pink flesh
And the television radiates
A barrage of color half-time-discussion on your face
Such a beautiful canvas
I watch as tacklers tackle
I gaze as throws are thrown
And your face is a thrill to my eyes
As you become a rolling animation
I wish you to slip me your room key
For my feet to follow you up
The bland and neutral patterns
Of a chain-hotel-carpeted-staircase
To your numbered room
I'd watch your heels at times click
Together in nervous excitement
And my heart begins to beat
While my fingers jitter
As if lamely playing at the smallest banjo
Your sweet hands, with bones that rise
While you slowly turn the handle
Looking back you release a gentle smile
But the shriek of cheap glass breaking reminds me that
It could just be me, drunkenly, as I return
Pointing out bottles on an unstable
Backlit piece of glass
Comparing the amount of years to
The volume of such bottles
I listen as 80s hair metal drips downwards
Ushering in Fitzgerald on a French shore
The company around me changing
And although uptight, more appealing
Black cocktail dresses diverge to
Those of Deux modèles de Jeanne Lanvin
And in the midst of a different crowd
I think of you, of us on another cloud
One that'll never rain, but only
Soak up the scotches of the earth
If one gets lost, does one keep on looking?
Or do we drink until the earth that we know
Changes into the form that better suits us
And if you return, my lover of a moment
Room 243. Marriot. Santa Ynez, California.

09/28/2012

Posted on 09/29/2012
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