Drunk of the South
|fig. 1) adios rosetta|
Sitting on the bench of the bar, really a sweet stool and drinking us some draft beers. We had us some Old Styles, some Honkers, and some rich and complex Bells with high and hoppy finish. Then we sat at this tall table for awhile, there was me and Jack and Francis. We had us a bright enough time playing with books of matches and trading some energy around, When is it all going happen?
The Range of the day wasn't as long as it could have been. Our deeds seemed short as well, school was only just begun. We had just turned nerd and were paying for the privilege, Francis rolled loose tobacco into swift white papers. I watch him and say something about the stones, or the ears of holes in the timeless tray of the day. I say, Blank in the park again. Not very in a pitched tent with the weather or not.
Jack said, Dope. The sun, and then he laughed again and again. I think it's right. You know I looked into that. The whole thing. It's not always like that. The tents not as big but we did that once.
But I'm right, right. That's all I care about, I picked up my beer and waved at the game on the television over there.
Open, Francis stuck the finished cigarette in his mouth. His glasses looked high on his brow but I'm always slouching so who can say.
Right right his finger, Jack points at me, his fingers bent in a noticeable crook. It looks like this, haha.
No, I laughed. Ha, no.
Francis stood and left. His bag's still under the table. It's a stained canvas sack with a long strap. Its filled with books about rum and Asia. He talks about going away but he's all heart. Instead he carries this thing around all day and rummages for paneling in the backs of widows garages. Jack and Francis will talk about the image of the stars at night.
Let's talk about it instead, I put my head on the table. I've got us the chicken flu. Blank in the park, blank in the park again.
Then you'll like this too, Jack stood up too look for his nose cloth. His Ipod falls onto the floor instead. It drops right into a salacious bar puddle. The cord of his headphones now stretches between Jack and the wounded flap of his little apple bird.
Broken tart, I laugh but Jack looks sad instead. He looks at me with my head there on the table. He looks around for Francis again.
There's no reply, I ask Jack.
Gone's not the word to speech, there'll be a draft it. He is though, Jack looks around. You know he's gone don't you. You know too?
I raise my arm from the wet table. I'm tired Jack. Francis understands, he get's it. You've got to give up while you still can.
Wait I hear the ocean, Jack looks to the windows. In front are four frosty windows laced with chicken wire and christmas lights their inset is home to a stack of plastic ashtrays and a surge protector. The funny thing is, with my ear resting on the surface of the table like this, It's just like that. It's too big to even talk about even with Francis.