Saturday Night

Tiger on the prowl for a midnight fox with a name that drips like rain.  The handsome traveler lights a dark brown cognac-dipped cigarette, passes me along the waterfront with hands fishing in pockets – probably for valentines or ivory blossoms or round smooth stones or nothing, only straw.  Satisfying the longings of many is the aim, fulfilling desire is the oldest game.  Leave yourself at the doorstep, do not say hello.  At least try to be a little mysterious, will you?  It’s Saturday night, like all the songs say.  It’s pulse, it’s sweet, it’s painful meat.  It’s reverie, it’s jamboree, it’s grinding bones and alcohol.  It’s the cracking face of misery, lonesome, handsome, soft, crazy, sick and dying, can’t win for trying.  It’s all the things that drove Hunter Thompson crazy and raving, that made Tom Waits a growling poetry-slinger.  It’s jazz musicians picking up beer on the way to rehearsal at each other’s apartments.  It’s one of the muses, it lights our fuses, it smokes and boozes.  It’s cooks and waitresses flirting, going out for drinks together after their shift, after being slammed to the hilt working the maddening rush like an adrenaline shot that gets you addicted gradually, a spoonful a day.  It’s roofers and plumbers down at the bar, or home nutty with unhappy wives and sick kids and aching knees, piles of laundry and dishes and cartoon movies.  It’s muscle-bound college boys out chasing tail, and young girls who want a break from being smart.  Sopping wet seasick lips ordering desert, pay for it with daddy’s credit card.  Dreams of perfect kisses, delicious kisses, temporary kisses.  It’s the night before Sunday in the candlelit corners of the world, it’s men in sharp rags and women being twirled.  It’s a shining diamond, it makes a hole, it leaves a mark, brightest moon and darkest dark, it’s having a party, it’s sick in bed, remembering laughter and wearing red, it’s knowing you’ll die, rolling the dice, learning to love without thinking twice.  It’s high altitudes and aspirin, it’s turning up your music, it’s walls collapsing around you, a night to remember, deconstructing then reconstructing the science experiment of your life.

 

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2 thoughts on “Saturday Night”

  1. I love this piece! Not sure if its fiction or nonfiction, but I definitely see some Hunter S. Thompson inspiration. I write about him in my own literary blog, so I love finding others who do the same. Great post, awesome writer’s voice.

    Liked by 1 person

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