Thoughts Surrounding the Generic Girl Across the Bar

Here I need not claim to be anyone,
Certainly not myself.
I ask only which
Sugar’d down drink we should choose to
Toast us?
What saucer would be worthy of
Housing the fleeting death of our inhibitions?

There across the generic bar sits a single rejection or
The courageous possibility of fine futures yet to be framed.
Patiently remind yourself that the sun will not forget his Earth
Nor the moon her erotic splendor that for fleeting, nocturnal moments
Makes men’s eyes search the naked body of a woman’s sky.

Be a heroine so that beneath bed sheets we
Will explode into each other as we meet
Disarmed on the most lingering battlefield.
Flood my draught you natural disaster and
Make me race for the rooftops.
For when this War of a Woman meets this
Machine of a Man we will storm through the
Ceremonies and baptize each other in the
Honey rich lather of the chance that we
May never grow to hate each other.

Here we are young and saturated with the idea of Saturday.
Let us offer up a prayer to the Almighty Ambiguity who
Is or is not and does not matter to us tonight.

There is something about a city.
Something about a bar in a city,
Something about strangers in bars.
Here is every aspiration, struggle, hope,
Joy, despair, everything cared about,
Neglected, hated, loved and lived for.
Here is you. Here am I.
Here in this harrowing herald to our humanity
Are girls.
Everywhere they are pairing off with boys,
Both sides closing the door of the world to
Open the door to each other.
Lightning is rippling through the peaks of
The night, soaring, tumbling, peaking,
Plummeting with the storm’s roar.

I am like sunlight who has lost his
Way and wandered into the remote reaches
Of our dark cosmos only to find myself
Again at home by association.

You are noticing everyone noticing you and
I know you will not be left alone for long.
This night or this year, or next week or
Next year, you will be forever whisked away
Into some strong stranger’s arms.

On a stormy night at some point in some history there is a
Tavern where low men sing high praises to lamentable pasts.
Here I am a snowblower in a dark corner of summer’s garage.
So soon the night will be mutinied by the marooned morning;
Here is where I choose to take my stand, here is where
I choose to claim to be someone so that to you I will
Not disappear into the night as a perpetual anyone,
Here is where I choose to walk ten eternal steps
To pull up a stool and turn with a smile to say
Hello, may we never grow to hate each other.

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