Bar-Brawl Chronicles: 3 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

He was still there,
Waiting for his some sort
Of acquittal or something
Or maybe he was just there
Perceptibly waiting
For my order
And I told him,
”I was just kidding. Another bottle.”
No, I lied
I wanted to say,
”Make it,5 deaths.”
But death only comes
One at a time.

Mr. Waiter arrived
Shuffling his feet,
And I thought,
What an agile fella
This kid is,
And I envied him.
The quagmire in my throat,
The malaise of my legs
Maim me -
I am a drunken slug.
And they are slug-eaters.

The bottle was placed
Poised, sweating cold vapor
And I was sweating too,
A sweet, discreet disgust.
One slug,
Nobody came.
Two slugs,
I think someone
Contemplated on approaching me
The seat in front of me was empty,
And maybe
In the darkness of the bar,
I was invisible
And only the streaks of light
Gave them the impression
That a shadow
Was burning at the dead corner.

I can’t take it anymore.
I took my bottle
Went straight to the bar tender,
And ordered 4 more bottles
And he was somewhat
Startled,
This frenzied rhummy
Must be stopped.
But they never did
For they were earning
Their money from me
So they could feed their mouths,
Or perhaps purchase
A night of pleasure
So they let me go.

And I went to the bar’s alley,
And I saw Mr. Waiter
With some other man
And they were conversing
And I thought,
In every place I go,
Loneliness is always there.
Perhaps, I am loneliness
But no,
I am Windsor
And I will never be loneliness,
Unless I chose to be
And I am given choices again,
To take loneliness
Into my head,
Or into my stomach

And I guess I chose my head.
I am never good with choices.
Mr. Waiter, and the other guy
Were talking
And Mr. Waiter removed his vest
Like he was preparing to leave
Or go to some errand that demands
Whole of him
And I heard him say,
”There’s a man inside there,
Who told me his death wants more death.
Odd fellow.”
And the other man laughed.
I was gnashing my teeth not because
They were talking about me
But because,
When he said, “Pardon me, sir? ”
He never really understood.

I flicked my cigarette.
I lay my bottles on the floor,
And pushed Mr. Waiter
Onto the brick, dewy walls.
And he said, “What’s your problem? ”
I never told him
That my problem is that
Nobody ever finds the one
Or nothing ever fills.
And the other guy restrained me,
And Mr. Waiter
Was not Mr. Waiter anymore.
He was a stranger
Who excelled in fist fights
And one hard blow
To my simian jaw
Somewhat knocked me unconscious.
My eyes were blurry,
And they made fun of me
By placing
The beer bottles beside me,
And lit a cigarette and
Placed it in between my fingers
To give the impression
That I was drunk that moment
And not badly beaten
But my mouth was bleeding
So their attempts were futile.

I heard them leave,
And I cannot move.
Somebody came
Not to understand me,
Just to help me up.
And that was the moment
I concluded,
That no one will ever
Care.