#3
from Bar Charades
after Rita Moreno sets the tempo on The Muppet Show!
after Rita Moreno sets the tempo on The Muppet Show!
Dehydrated and drowning
in dunes of my desert bed.
Head pounding and wailing
from scenes I chose instead.
Still trying to remember.
After trying to forget.
Searching for something.
All the lines were set.
I'm paying for it now.
I didn’t want to think.
Lost my only love.
You paid for my drink.
The language from thirst
on edge of lips’ sides
held seductive twists
from those surprised eyes.
Feeding the right lines.
Flipping our faces
off. Got carried away
working all the bases.
We absorbed every hint
made with each Latin tone.
Our head trips never paused
until numbers went into phone.
Syncing up back and forth,
we came on strong and direct,
dancing in blacked-out night
to meters we came to expect.
One to lead, One to follow,
within the music of bar-lines.
There were only so many beats
until we read all of the signs.
Then we went back together,
with measuring tape for par,
more lines and cocky tunes,
another scene with a bar.
Searching for that something
like the initial rhyme,
was a repetition,
in single snaps of time.
Trophies by chance running
we had something in mind.
So our competition started
with what we found and left behind.
Stumbling over suspicions
all turned to argumentation.
We're playing with syllables.
Symbols for communication.
Threw a few cheap shots,
cruised around in between,
lines made to cross caused fevers
that purged the guts of the scene.
Pissing gold out on streets,
aiming to go way too far,
fighting airs on our way
to one more scene with a bar.
Lasting calls made playing fetch,
jealous with impatient stress,
unsatisfied from the start,
the run ended in a mess.
I lost my belonging.
Was searching the floor.
Our one common ground
offers others with more.
Needing some body,
turned on without a care,
flirts, fronts, and feelings,
disappear with one stare.
A new lover’s oasis
dries up and fades away.
Tomorrow is confusing
with stiff aches of yesterday.
Infested water colors.
All days blended together.
Blurry viscous cycle
could hide me forever.
I found a fresh scene.
Now I feel rotten.
A chance of a glance
somehow forgotten
shameless scenes on the rocks,
gambling on which to pick,
on my own in the desert,
facing the bars of music.
