The Voices...For Bukowski Poem by S.MICHAEL DOWNS

Its 3 a.m. and the bar scene crowd is out devouring the evenings caught and conquered.

My hands caress the smooth surface of the bar like the flat belly of a young woman.

I hear the whispers of voices unheard by others less prepared to hear them.

“It’s all just like you see it pal, lies and corruption.

Men who believe they were born to manipulate the masses, regardless of the cost.”

My head buzzes with the voices as I try to catch the weary bartender’s eye.

“Can you hear that? ” I ask.

“Sure buddy, another scotch? ”

My head hangs low, lower than I would like but something’s pushing me down.

The guy at the end of the bar nods and gives me a wink. Can he hear the voices?

There’s a waitress cleaning up, too fat for the short dress she’s forced to wear. Her weary breasts spill out from the bondage of her blouse and the pancake makeup she wears to disguise the sad story told by her face is insufficient to do the job.

I need to go but my feet have disappeared and my legs can’t find them.

Did I miss something? Are all of us too stupid or too indifferent to what we hear?

The voices are on the TV, night after night. Voices saying terrible things, murder, fire kills, war, child kidnapped. Where’s the good news? Any good news?

Can they hear the voices like I do? I guess not. Not enough people at the bar, there should be, would be, more if they heard the voices.

Got to find my feet, got to get home and lock all the locks.

Or the voices will get me.


For Bukowski