Saturday, August 8, 2009

Saturday Night

I've burned my a$$ on a boiling sea. I've been frostbitten on a frozen shore. I've needed warmth when its cold and a cool breeze when its hot. In the present I'm OK on this Saturday night. But just to set the record straight, I don't drink, but maybe I'll get drunk. Maybe I'll go to a strip bar and employ a woman to jiggle her exotic a$$ and wild @#its for a few dollars and a salacious dream. Or perhaps I'll listen to Nina Simone. Her voice singing Sinner Man till my old self comes crashing back to me in the heavy weight of disappointment.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

the rollar coaster ride of tragedy and comedy is delightfully present in your posts as of late - something very Bukowski there. The question remains however, is the only hope that of the Hunter S. Thompson bullet-to-the-head reprise for the lot we are handed in life? One has to admit, if even in the dead of the cool august night, that if we are this close to the concreteness of existential frustration, we must be equally as close to the transcendence of it.
How do we get that to which we are reaching?