He moves like his joints pain him, this man
who sits next to me, staring into his glass
as though the depth of the
amber liquid might hold
answers to a problem he cannot voice aloud
in the dark basement bar
on Franklin Street.
Cold stone walls, concrete floor
drinking in light, leaving us alone in
darkness where,
unseen by some,
watched by all,
we have gathered clutching drinks
that will make us immune to pain,
to emotions,
to memories.
We line up, sinners in a sanctuary
kneeling against pews,
glasses clutched in our hands
in prayer.
I never believed in prayer any of
the three times I was dragged along
to Sunday service,
not kicking and screaming like my brother,
but as a silent protester amongst
the throng of cheerful, dutiful churchgoers
who were simply happy to see a new face
join their family.
I remember a man standing on stage
in the enormous room
filled to capacity.
He spread his arms wide and told me
I wasn’t okay.
He said it with a grin on his face.
As I stared at him, his grin
grew wider and wider until split his face in half.
It dripped off onto the floor.
The people cheered for him,
like the bar patrons cheer when the especially drunk girl
takes another shot.
The man on stage is in the crowd now
with half a face, applauding and telling her
she isn’t okay.
But this isn’t the enormous room.
Here, everybody is okay. Anybody who says
otherwise is immediately drowned out with
a holy chorus of “fuckyou”’s and “asshole”’s.
Here, there is no judgment.
Not from man, not from god,
except perhaps Dionysus whose only concern
is why the law student who has an exam in the morning
is still sober enough to drive himself home.
His agents surround the poor bastard,
delivering the divine word of their lord in the form of
Irish car bombs and angry balls.
There’s anger now. The law student wants to leave.
The messengers don’t want him to go.
Hazes of emotion and shouting and swearing
and suddenly I don’t want to be here anymore.
It’s not because of the fighting -
there’s enough Irish in me that I don’t mind the fighting -
it suddenly feels too small.
Hot. Drink does nothing to cool it.
If I were somebody else, I might feel tears on my face.
I used to be the one who wanted to leave.
I don’t want anything anymore.
That makes me mad. Makes me want to march over there,
grab the law student by the shirt and force him to stay
because this is somewhere you come
when you don’t want to leave.
Nihilism is unbecoming.
Like the man who stood on stage and smiled
while he told a group of people that they
were not okay.
Here, nihilism is hedonism
as the liquid flows
running down the sides of cups
and spilling down the front of a button-up shirt
and a blouse, unnoticed by the dancers
who laugh and forget
that sunrise is now closer than sunset.
He forgets that he has a girlfriend who went to bed
 |
| I don't think I could ever find a better picture of this place. Something in the way this is taken captures perfectly the way I think about it. |
Inspirational Works:
The Verve, Bitter Sweet Symphony
- When writing this poem, there was one line I kept coming back to: Nihilism is unbecoming. The idea of nihilism is something every angsty high school kid is fascinated with, and I was no exception. It's only worrying when it comes back to you later in life. This song is one of the most beautiful examinations of the idea of nihilism I can think of: the feeling of isolation and insulation from the things that are supposed to matter. It doesn't praise it, it simply examines it.
