|Current mood:|| contemplative|
|Current music:||Various songs by Betty Blowtorch|
Open Mic Night
I heard from a woman today that I had not thought to speak to again. She invited me to an open mic night, and is urging me to recite my cocktail napkin poem. For those of you lucky bastards that have escaped having to read or hear it...ha HA! No such luck. I have posted it anew!!
Ode to a Cocktail Napkin
So small, so thin and delicate. You hold the power in you, though. Scribbles of lipstick and scratches of near empty pens hold a world of wonders in the numbers and letters written there.
You, the cocktail napkin, have brought lovers together and enemies too. Plans for the latest gadget to sweep the nation, lyrics to the next hit song, and the simplest of things: doodles.
You, the cocktail napkin, have been witness to lives ending, lives beginning, and the establishment of peace. You, the cocktail napkin, have been discarded without care, stained with the blood from a bar room brawl, and gently cleaned the spots from the dress of a movie star.
You, the cocktail napkin, ever present when we need you, and the divine messanger of that phone number we cannot lose. You, the cocktail napkin, have broken hearts and destroyed confidences with your fake phone numbers written in lipstick and your cruel insults written indelibly on your paper and on the victim's soul.
So here's to you, cocktail napkin, here's to you. Cheers! Oh damn, I spilled...hey, could I borrow that napkin for a minute?
I have not decided whether or not I will debase myself in front of a group of talented poets and singers, and embarass myself with this stupid poem. It would be the ultimate humiliation, I suppose.
I have written another one that she thinks I should perhaps open with...
I sat again at the bar today, trying to make houses out of toothpicks and the accessories of cocktails. I prefer the fancy little onions, but sometimes I end up eating them instead.
They laugh at me, I know, inside. I watch a couple schmooze, watch him pawn and gaw gaw over her. That's nice. It's nice they're not alone anymore.
My house of toothpicks, however, is not faring this holiday so well. The pretty little paper umbrellas are getting soggy.
I got a job, today. Watching a lovely child, he is so sweet. Reminds me of those little pink plastic King Cake babies...you know, the ones that represent the baby Jesus? They bake 'em inside and the child that finds it will have good luck all year. Mardi Gras, I miss it. I wonder if the little children ever choke on those plastic babies.
I am collecting cocktail napkins. Discarded ones with the lovely woman's fake phone number, scribbled in lipstick in hopes that the man will leave her alone now. I have an abundance. I call them, sometimes, just to see if it's really her. It usually isn't.
My hair is adorned with little plastic swords, the kind you spear olives on. I look like a drunken porcupine. No worries, I am drunk and it is 10 A.M.
My house of cocktail architecture is falling down around me. Luckily I'm alone, however, for I am trapped inside it.
Well, off to cook dinner now. Oooh...turkey joe night!! (blech) But William likes them. So, what Prince William wants, Prince William gets. Well, everything except that damned goat.
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