we are sitting next to the jukebox
right over there..
and
he taunts us
and says
that the more he drinks the more he feels alive.
like a dare
across the table
to us.

i love to stare into his caveman beard
the neon lights flickering
off his whiskers
beer foam at the corners of his mouth

holy prophet madman!
i love to drink shoulder to shoulder with you
and these mad geniuses
vulgar
making love to the dollar wells..
funking the james brown beats
and playing imaginary bass lines
on the sticky table tops..

its in
these times
these men
forget that i have a vagina
and talk to me like a man
respect me
entice me with their gestures

i see my father in them..
the father i was never ment to know..
it’s good to rub my knees against them under the table
when the drink has made us
forget out boundries
where the whiskey
on our breath mingles
above our heads
in smoke rings
from our borrowed cigarettes

someday
they will talk about us
the prophets
and mad poets that used to come around
and make a whole lot of life
next to the jukebox
right over there.