In times like this the barmaid 
goes on with her own business 
	and leaves me be.


Somewhere amongst the glasses
a jukebox sings Dylan,
the patrons talk to one another
	about Bukowski.


And I swear I saw him
sitting on a stool, asking 
the bartender about some 
	bummed out broad 
 	on the other end.


[He won't be alone tonight.
I envy the old man.]


I order another drink
and hang my head in silence,
not disappearing, but ceasing
to exist.


In a few hours I will be making
my way out of this place,
toward nirvana, 
or crossing the border 
with the moon on my back.


And every person who passes, 
each proverbial face, will be you 
or comparative to you
before becoming someone else.


And as I fade into the distance,
I will pretend that I enjoy blending 
into the white empty space 
	that takes place of you.

"And every person who passes, each proverbial face, will be you or comparative to you"

goodness...you make me excited to be here..

I look forward to the next.

"too bad ignorance isn't painful"
~Unknown~