This is quite possibly the strangest piece I have ever written. It's inspiration comes from listening the music of Tom Waits.
But don't tell him that...
This tattered old barstool is home
to the back end of this tired poet.Surrounded by whiskey voices and cigarette singersevery day is thanksgiving as I enjoysome wild turkey.Oh, I'm happy enough to chat with you,but if I had my druthers, I'd stay far awayfrom your breath that will strip paint ormake me gravely ill with the second handexhalation of carcinogens.The bartender wanders over and gives mea look that says I've had enough.I tap the counter with two fingers, typingout my order in staccato make it a double,barkeep. An impatient lapse of time betweenempty and full, a glance around the roomreveals a cloud of smoke harboringthe secrets being hidden by the drinkers. The green felt on the pool table runs intopockets which hold no balls.The vending machines sell smokesand protection against the nights that seetoo much booze get consumed.The jukebox is lit up like a Christmas tree,but its voice is not heard. Instead,a raven haired angel plays the spatulaagainst the strings of a pinkFender Stratocaster And the mirror behind the barreflects an old poet whosewords start to get slurred. Stop the terrible music,there's poetry to be read. For this poet will write, even throughthe haze of pollution and thecaterwauling of a bad singer.That's the goal for this night atthe pub. To pen some thoughts,and find the muse at the bottomof a dirty glass. Leave me alone,you drinkers, players andgravelly voiced singers.The words are flowing fasterthan the bottle is emptying. Yep, this old barstool iswitness.The words that are writteninspire more...and conspire withthat wily old turkey to keep me goingfor the rest of the year.