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midnight rain
and sizzling tires
hypnotize the city
as i sail down sixth
foggy steam settles,
liquid weight
sinking my conscious
blurring
white and yellow lines
street lights melt
against the windshield
streaming down
in random
florescent
dizzying
beads…
pop-pop-popping gravel
grade the undercarriage
whoa…shit!!!
i pull the wheel left
of instinct
my blood pumps
in my throat,
a boney hand
pressing my larynx
and jugular
bulging my eyeball veins
scratched by the sands
of sleep
as adrenaline fades
i turn on the a.c.
wipe my forehead
and blast the radio
an old Elvis song
zz…going to a party
at the county jail…zz
the rain subsides
to neon signs
flashing…pointing
toward a driveway
BRIMSTONE BAR AND GRILL
“where every hour is happy hour”
parking lot’s empty
but i see a crowd
thru the window
a cowbell rings
as i open the door
“what’s your pleasure?”
asks a dark handsome bartender
“ah, coffee…hot and black”
“like your women” ha, ha
there are no tables
just booths
wound in a maze
i walk around a corner
a woman in red
touches my arm
sending a wave of chills
to my shoulders
settling in the roots
of my hair
“buy a lady a drink?”
“my name’s Samantha
i work for free choice
have you heard of us?”
“yea, you’re that pro-abortion
group that rallied at the Spectrum
last weekend”
“pro-women’s rights.
why are you here?”
“i pulled over for coffee”
“yeah, right,” she snickers
we walk past booth
after filthy booth,
an ammonia smell
mixes with ether and alcohol
like a hospital trauma ward
or nasty book stores in Jersey
in booth thirteen
a man’s kissing a man
while a gorgeous blonde
watches
and madly fingers herself
“who are those men
in booth thirty-one?
looks like they’re playing cards
poker, blackjack, or something”
“mostly doctors and lawyers”
she says with a wink
“they lust for money
and power vice sex”
four men take turns
with a redhead
on a table for two
filling each orifice
i cringe as she screams
mad, erotic curses
number nine’s a dilly…
a man’s getting a blowjob
while loading a syringe
when the woman finishes
he shoots her again
at last the bar
“ a drink for the lady”
i shout to the tender
“Samantha,” he yells
above the loud metal music
“the usual?”
“yeah, Stan, cocaine
and a Collins”
she pulls out a joint
pressing it to my fingers
“no thanks, i’m driving”
Stan stares at Samantha
they stare back at me
and laugh to hysterics
tears pour down
their quivering cheeks
i toss him a five
and push the door open
but i step in a cellar
and smell rotting flesh
men and women in bondage
are being sexually tortured
i see a young boy
emasculated and crying
“help me, mister
help me!”
i shove back thru the door
into the club
“Samantha
please tell me
how can i leave here?”
she presses against me
runs her hand up my thigh,
“you can’t get out, silly boy
why do you think
they call ‘em bars?”
Caribbean Sea ‘89
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