I love
Monday’s
By:
Husam (Sam) Salman
|
In the center of it
all, Los Angeles,
In the halls of the
night club
Sprawled the last clamor
of your youth,
You looked like a
dream from a fantasy book
That night, as if it
were your debut – acquiesce.
With a wig like weave
floats halo about your
Skull, pearl
necklace, shot on the ready,
Lipstick, glossy and
bright.
Of all your stage shows,
The best, to my
knowledge, was the dirt number.
Fade-Dra can jar with
sharp sounds,
Wailing from her
soul, in the depths of limbo.
High hung moon,
displaced the dark,
Danced with each
shadow as they
Waltzed to and from
the strange
Alley entrances of
chi-eyed determination
And the velvet ropes,
That never stayed
closed. Too long.
The promoters that
night,
In their drunken
state,
Sat cozy with free
drinks from bar
Flowed free. One eye,
slung sleepier
With composure problems.
He could barely hold
the weight of
His own ego in check.
He gets fucked and
thinks
That means he’s
wanted.
Sure, for ‘that’ night…
He’s the kind of guy,
I flag my friends to
avoid,
Because to him, you’re
just a prize
To be won and had.
For that moment,
under the veil
Of endless drinks,
passed the masks
Of insecurity and
drag…
For a moment there,
in the downstairs room
I thought you noticed
the flaws that
I too wore like social
armor and
Diminished with condescending
humor.
There I was, sitting,
waiting for the
Show to start.
Siamese bitches with
my BFF
By my side – verbally
hard
Over the guy at the
bar.
Masturbating over the
idea
That the ‘performer’
is done
Assaulting us with
half-whit
And less effort put.
I’m sure, just then,
the dj
Who was looking
tenderly
At someone else’s
available
Husband; who’s touch
can be
Borrowed for the
night…or two,
Was itching for the
race of the clock
To be done.
She sat there, rad
dress clutched in
Her hand – waving the
hem to the floor
In hopes to get some
attention back – but
Wouldn’t notice
anyway, because she
Only ever looks down…at
her dress that
She wore
So that someone would
notice her.
Narcissus
Above the blood
On the dance floor,
wore the flower
In the girl’s hair
that danced flamenco
To Hip-Hop and
expected everyone else to
Get into her grove –
but loving her
For her moves.
In the back lot,
where we incubate
Our cancer tenderly,
in waiting rooms
Of hope – adorning trinkets
Attention is their
only trait cast,
We waited bitterly,
in cold
And wet for drinks.
Motioned to me, she
waved
Wild side walks from
Hey babe, girl. Where
only
She was allotted the
trophy
Of endless gay men
fawning
Pathetic by her side.
You’re joined at the
unhip,
But we still politely
laugh and
Pretend you’re still interesting
Or relevant.
That last hour –
Before we spoke – good
night,
The smell so sweet of
the midnight
Sun’s late arrival,
she’s a star –
You can taste the
fame on her - brewing.
The hour wares, and
the creeps start to stop.
Attitudes thawed by whiskey
skips, slants of
Shade no longer cast
Eager eyes replace
icy facades and bullshit.
I’m too grown for
your 11th hour games
And casting of desperation
nets. I was here all night
And you didn’t bother…let
me return the favor.
As kisses subside on sidewalk
spills of
Rabble rousers rights
and endings in
Sight. As the shamed
pains of high heels slung
Over shoulders now drooped,
And the clip-clop
Of steps
Walking
Away.
I remember, the faint
amusement
Of wanting to go
to have a time
And remember the fun
That was to be had
Only to leave
slightly more
Shaken than when I
first
Walked in…now that
you passed -
bye.
|
No comments:
Post a Comment