Scenes from the Bar

I told you, I told you to stop. The man said again
and again as he repetitiously hit his palm
against his forehead. But it's too late to stop, so
might as well order another drink.
And here he sits in the corner barstool
caressing his frosted glass, letting the
ice melt in his mouth, so as to not waste
a drop of that burning sweet serum. Behind him
a group of college students, three boys and a girl,
play pool. The echoes of clanging glass balls
ring in his ears. It's a short sharp distant noise
but for him it's the only noise that exists and he
likes the quiet cling, clang, cling pattern.
Suddenly the girl laughs.
One of the young men is leaning over,
whispering in her ear. The man hates
him for placing his hand on the small of her back.
He hates him for smelling her hair and
tasting her breath. But more than he
hates him, he hates her.
He wants to pull a butterfly knife from the
left pocket of his jacket
slash off her head, strap
it on a skateboard and wheel it down the beach.
A kind of sacrificial offering to the ocean, in
hopes of erasing her.
He looks up to see the bartender asking him
if he wants another round. The man grabs
the bartender's shirt, pulls him forward to scream
in his ear. Stop it. Didn't I tell you to stop?

Nirvana

Buddha watches from the shelf
as I carefully wrap my unnecessary plastic objects
in tissue paper. The piles of memories surrounding
my feet all scream for equal attention and care
when it becomes their turn to be placed in a box.

Buddha smiles from the window
as I give up the tedious packing and begin
throwing souvenirs, toys and random
collector's items into garbage bags.
Muffling their cries with more junk, I tell
them, I don't need them to remember.

Buddha laughs from the passenger seat
as I drive to St. Lawrence.
Placing items from my boxes into new boxes
my things transform back to plastic,
releasing their subconscious ties to me
ready to develop new bonds and create
a life for someone else.

Buddha waves from the tree
as I drive off into a new existence.