The Savage Muse
There is no experience quite like sitting alone in a totally darkened barroom at 5 AM on a Sunday morning staring at the upturned legs of the barstools, drinking pints of Bass Ale, listening to the leaking faucet drip into the stainless-steel sink.
The second hand scans the face of the clock, smoke rings dissipate in the antique, hand engraved Harp Lager mirror behind the bar.
The barman considers the room; the beer puddles on the peeling linoleum floor, the mud-streaked foot sliding prints, the broken glass shards, the spent matches, the blackened cigarette ends, the twisted plastic drink sticks, the wadded paper napkins strewn everywhere amidst the general rubble.
The barman considers these details of his life quietly as he drinks his Bass.
The clock hands move, the water drips, this is chaos revealed, this is the silent hour, the quiet hour when all that remains are the smoking ruins after The Fall.
Ordering Details:
In the heat of the night the barman consolidates his orders.
Pours beers from chrome plated taps, shakes drinks one handed over his shoulder, cracks ice in the palm of his left hand with a mallet wielded by his right hand.
Considers his world.
Finds Poems:
Music Men
They heard
tunes in
their heads
no one else
would ever
hear
They were
so whacked
out on
where they
had come
from and
where they
were going
they didn’t
have any
time for
the here
and the now
They were
music men
lost in
the ozone
and their
plane was
coming down
so fast
you could
see the
spirals
in their
eyes
More quarters fall into the jukebox. The pin ball machines in the background are ringing, automatically totaling unknowable scores.
Working Details:
The barman is an extremely precise, particular man of habit.
All the tools of his trade: his bottles, glasses, fruit mixes, and the like must be exactly where they are meant to be all the time.
Whenever he assumes a shift, he scrupulously examines the subject and orders his material; creates an environment in which he may comfortably function.
Riders of the Purple Sage
Had that
well worn
world weary
look of
men who’d
spent too
much time
somewhere
people
shouldn’t
go
Said ” line
‘em up boys.”
as if this
were the
last chance
saloon
Creation Details:
In the heat of the night, the barman considers his room as if it were a blank sheet of paper; every crowd as a mass of unknowns which must be ordered and controlled.
It is the barman’s role to assign meaning to every detail, to every person, to everything that he sees
Downhill Racer
She didn’t
look like
the crazy type
but she kept
switching her
drinks as if
she didn’t know
what event
she’d signed up
for
All I knew
was she’d
better look
out
She was going
down the
hill way
too fast
The Savage Muse, Details:
Outlaw
He was
plenty heavy
alright
Had all
of those
classic
bad moves
you associate
with movie
bad guys
out West
I thought
maybe he
had a black
hat in the
trunk of
his car
Thought maybe
he carried
a gun
and knew
how to use
it
thought
maybe he
was after
my ass
just for
the hell
of it
As an artist, the barman has no time for motivations; his only concern is the effect of the cause.
Escaping Details:
The Tenth Victim
She had
the look
of a woman
waiting
for her
tenth victim
She wore
only enough
clothes to
keep her
from being
arrested
Had a long
thin scar
the length
of her
right fore-
arm
Asked me
for a Vodka
Gimlet
Up
Sat drinking
her 20 dollar
bill until it
was gone
watching the
door
Watching me
in case
he didn’t
show
The barman is an escape artist.
He lives out on the street unprotected, confronting his material head on, directly engaging in a vicious, psychic tug of war with his savage muse.
At the end of his nightly struggle, the barman watches the sun rise outside the darkened barroom drinking Bass Ale as the water drips in the stainless-steel sink.
He is always too numb and too tired to look for or to find poems.