The Odd Little Nook

I could never 'smarm' my way into a woman's love nest, by daring to purchase a piece of her, with an alcoholic liquid. What could she expect? What could I expect? How can a lover begin this way? Is this love? What can one bring to the table, besides sausage? It doesn't seem fair. It doesn't seem adequate, to the driving force of love. What one can offer, out of a cocktail glass, is not an aperitife, and hors d'oeuvries are bigger than what's offered over a bar...aren't they? It's such a cold and calculated plan, on both sides of such reciprocation. No. I could not go through with it, and this created deeper loneliness, and deeper drunkenness. Taverns. What does one expect at a tavern? I came to expect the bar to turn on end, near midnight, as all the ass holes slide toward me. The ugliest girl in the bar becomes 'possible', but not beautiful, and my intentions are not pure. I hate myself, and love my hand better. I cannot offer this falsehood to another human. I will take it outside. People go to bars, and to taverns, I cannot. They are the loneliest places on Earth. They are hopeless, smell of urine, and vomit, and worse...of cheap perfume. It is a place where agony meets audacity, to have sex on a table. It might as well be a butcher shop. I sit on a park bench, under a tree...at an overlook, at the moon, and I wish, and yearn, but I am not feeling that 'cold sweat' feeling of fear and guilt. Now, I am just lonely, and within that crystal...clear...bell of alone ness, I often talk to god. I may not be the worlds greatest or most endowed lover, but when, I love...it is fully and without reserve, for a moment or forever. My kind are not found in bars, not that we are better than. The bulges in my pockets are feelings, not flesh...although, I would, the feelings of another's, yearn,,,so greatly to the flesh, it ends up there. In the hangover, the aftermath, the mess of the 'love hunt, I often hear people speak as if, no matter what they try...for love's sake...for fuck's sake, it just doesn't meet the mark, and why did they try? I say, I may be an idealist of love, and so may we...all we park bench sitters...lonely as the moon, we talk to our gods, or our fates or muses and we wait, and quietly cry our tears, but we love anyway...we love in our way. We find our loves in books...in paintings...in places...odd little nooks, nobody thought to look, and we hope, and we wait, and we pray...

Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,   Deming, New Mexico

Art: Credit to dafenoilpaintings.com, artist unknown