it’s the only bar in denver that will still cash
my paycheck. the bartender never looks up as he
pours something painless over rocks for a suit
that’s about to fall off a cliff. the last lonely
girls sit like witches around a smoking ashtray.
a guy wearing a pressed shirt, playing video
trivia, looks at everyone like he wants to xerox
their asses. he’s the kind of guy that will stalk
someone real hard.

the it crowd pose in the corner and scat about
obscurity. ex latch key kids nod to songs by
another average emo band. college coeds wear
tight nothings. i thought they wanted to fuck
me but they only like my shoes. 4 anarchists in a
booth share one beer. white boys in sweat suits
play pinball, talk about how hip hop is so smoove.

beret man. he’s not an artist. he just looks like
one. he never claps. he snaps. he’ll sleep on
your couch forever.

yesterday, the poet chased herself around an
apartment with razor blades because she thought
she was a box. she didn’t realize the box she was
in would bleed. she likes how she tastes like gin
tonight.

scratch and sniff. smell the sin on her. she
thinks death is hilarious. the handicap only
slow her down. she boasts that she would get
heavy skinnard with jesus christ himself because
dudes with long hair are mall sexy. she’s never
been accused of being classy.

i sit next to a roach and drink it all in. if i
let go of this pint i might fly away. i talk to
drunks who respect me. i’ve been trying to
convince them whiskey won’t cure clap. i know
it’s time to leave when i hear “white rabbit” back
to back on the juke box. i don’t know why i poison
myself like the others at this pub that proudly
kills slowly.