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| Saturday night alive
I do the too-many-retro-beers-with-hindsight-and-happy-hour- Saturday-night-in-the-Heartbreak-Hotel-routine. Yes, I do the old “man-who-wants-to-live”-drink-weekend-beer-number as dutifully as an old timer trying to win his legs back after a stroke does his exercise-routine. I do last-late-night-streetcar-home-number — I check the couples-cooing-together-against-the-cold item; I shudder silently at the lone-bum- passed-out-‘gainst-the-window- with-the-gun-blue-spider-web-tattoo-creeping-up-his-neck-show. I do the get-out-on-a-sudden-whim-and-disappear-into-the-night-move to walk along playing the strolling-to-Miles-Davis-blowing-blue- trumpet-over-the-deep-river-with-the-oily-neon-dreams scene. I do the crash-into-the-flat- and-raid-the-fridge number. I do the Judy-Garland-on-the-windowsill- with-Amaretto-and-milk- “somewhere-over-the-rainbow”- the-doctor-advised-me-not-to-do programme. I do the off-key gut-driven “What-now-my-love?- now-there-is-nothing- I-feel-the-world- closing-in-on-me” the little “What-now-my-love?- now-that-it’s-over- -there's-only-sky- where-the-sea-should-be” number. But, to be sure, I also do the self-critical- 1-2-3-touch-wood- is-this-poem-necessary? procedure. I do the shake-and-kick-the-old-mother-tongue- like-an-out-of-order-Coke-vending-machine-in-a-deserted-Bahnhof- in-a-German-ghost-town-way-past-midnight thing. I jerk and tilt my head-language-heart like a pinball machine and with a shrug of the shoulders I do the Send number – turn off the computer, leave the poetry room, brush my teeth, and slip like an eel slide silkily into bed. In the bed I lie electric still, wide awake – gaze through the blinds at the dark oozing of night the cold scything of moon. |