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Waiting In Brooklyn

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Balancing my brains with bourbon in some back-ally Brooklyn bar
nighthawks that had lost hope looking for the diner, perched in a meticulous row like tin ducks on a crooked shooting gallery on Coney Island

The fella to my right was coyly flirting with a glass of miller draft, his hands embraced around but not to tight, so that it didn’t slip through his fingersas the love of a good woman once did

A figure to my left
clothed in a sharp yet worn jazz man’s suit
fedora topping his head
spoke to no-one and everyone
said he nearly hit the big time
if they’d only taken his swordfish trombone

He lifted the brim of his hat. Pushed through s tangle of thick hair and scratched a triangular patch on his chin

In a charcoal lined voice, he puffed out
“let me tell you something, friend
life aint no box o chocolates
she’s a beautiful mistress,
the kind you find basked in the glow of a streetlight on the corner of 6th at 2 in the morning, the kind who’ll wrap you in the safe embrace of her thighs but cut your balls clean off the second you touch without permission.
Bukowski was a God damn genius, he wasn’t afraid to cut himself and bleed unspoken America. That scared me, that thrilled me, so drink deep friend and enjoy the ride”

He stood straight from the stool
turned on crisp Cuban heels
heading out into the night

I didn’t hear her heels as she floated like a vapour into the vacant space
just her hook and bait words
“You got cheekbones for days baby boy, you looking for a good time?”

Tom WaitsamericanaCharles BukowskiBukowskipoetrypoemBeat PoemBeatnic

◄ He'll Make America Great Again

Around the Cirrus and Nimbostratus ►


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