FUNERAL

let’s see where do we start
the wooden walls take in the cigarette smoke
you can’t see shit
someone’s playing broken piano on the creaky stage
but you can make out the face
just the silhouette of a man in a hat
there’s flies buzzing in and around the swinging lightbulbs
the barkeep is mopping the floors up with beer
the backdoor is open
you can hear drunken demons laughing in the alley
but as far as you know
you’ve got the bar all to yourself
you and your well whiskey
you and the weight of every one of your years
and you can’t face it you don’t want to face it
but every single failure every single success
has lead you to this hard seat beneath the moon
that can’t shine so harsh on you from inside of the bar
the barkeep wipes down the glasses
the barkeep washes his hands incessantly
and you just keep testing your liver
the smoke goes blurry
you see a face that you don’t want to remember
you feel her hair in your hands
you’re up and dancing alone
in the middle of the smoke filled bar
your eyes are as red as revolution
your bones are as dry as dust
the lights are swinging and so are you
you’re throwing punches at your own damn face
and it’s last call and tom waits and more well whiskey
and the lovely women of the world are everywhere but here
and you forget your name
and you laugh in the bathroom mirror
and you rub your eyes and don’t recognize the face
unshaven unclean unwell unsober unforgiven
you rub your eyes and you don’t recognize the face
and you’re staring at the flickering halogen lights
on the bathroom floor as the water runs over
and you’re every drunk american piano song
and you’re a modern day john the baptist
and this is gonna sting in the morning
if the morning ever comes
but you’re fading to black end credits
exit music for a film
the white names scroll across the black screen
and then nothing
you’re stuck with nothing
and you better get the hell up
and do something about it
there’s a time to mourn your death
but you better get the hell up before last call

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “TO MARLA”

Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

12 thoughts on “FUNERAL”

  1. Great poem. Brilliant images, this bar scenecomes to life and paints a portrait of the Everyman. It could be anyone or everyone. It could be your nneighbor or priest or best friend. It could even be Tom Waits himself. Quite lovely. Thank you. It was a fun read.

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