Bar-Brawl Chronicles: 2 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

But the thought of participating
Annoys me
Like a rascal pulling my pants
In front of an orchestra
Of judgmental crowds.

I took a long slug,
The liquor rummaged through my system
And I drank in unison
With the airheaded hotshots
And the leech queens
Anchored to their niches
And I thought
We are given choices
To take this alcohol
To the head
Or to our abdomen

And I guess, they chose
Their heads
They are mindless soldiers
As I was surveying the bar
With subtle disapproval,
Mr. Waiter approached me again,
This harried fellow, I thought
Is getting into my nerves

”Would sir want another bottle? ”
He was selling more deaths
And I was giving myself away
And I told him
”My death wants more death.”
And he told me,
”Pardon me sir? ”
And I could be a frank fellow
And not give him the pardon
That he was talking about
He never understood me
No one else will
Because they are busy
With their dumb idiosyncrasies.

Who am I to beg for empathy?
In this bar, none of these
Inebriated dames and lads
Dare to ask who that lonesome fellow is.
The one who is drinking alone
At the corner of the bar’s abyss,
Wearing his bonnet,
Smoking his cigarette like a madman,
And what happened to him
And who did the destruction to him?
No one will care.
They are distracted by nothing
But themselves
While I am distracted
By the thought that someone in this bar
Would dare to know
Who I was
And what I was doing there
Alone,

And perhaps, luckily,
That someone would ask
Why my death
Wants more death.