Preferably on a cold night - the heater on rain splashing
on the concrete outside.
Sublime.
But once a month or so I hit the bars.
I can't really figure out why.
I almost always regret it the next day
as I wake up and the memories of the
previous night's events start bubbling up
out of my hungover brain. It's an overwhelming
assault of both vision and sound.
The repetitive nonsense I yammer endlessly.
The angry glare from the woman at the end of the bar
who overheard my whispered gossip about her.
The sexual encounter in the restroom.
The bouncer unlocking the door and walking in.
Even things that happened over a decade ago
still rip at me to this day.
Why do I keep going back?
Releasing myself from solitude is necessary
to check my sanity. As of yet - I've never evaluated myself
sane enough to become one of the crowd -
so I retreat again. And I never improve.
Crazier than a shit house rat.
Hugh Blanton is a truck loader who combs poems out of his hair during those times he can steal away from his employer's loading dock. He has appeared in Bottom Shelf Whiskey, The Dope Fiend Daily, Terror House Magazine and other places.
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