Listen, Listen…” I said. “The reason I write poems about my ex-girlfriends is because they’re interesting people.”
She pursed her lips until two thin strips of faded pink
Replaced the plumpness of her red orifice. “And I am not interesting?” She questioned.
“Well, you are, just, just in a different way.”
I sipped on my whiskey,
Prevented the progress of descending ice cubes
By using my teeth as a barrier.
I allowed one to slip through. I crunched on it as I continued.
“Like see…you’re not a drug addict. You’re not fucking men for money, or fucking two other guys besides me.
You’re a beautiful soul and a beautiful face. You’re almost too beautiful to write about.”
She rolled her eyes. “Bullshit, don’t feed me your bulllllllshit!”
“It’s not bullshit! I am serious.”
She pointed towards my chest. “Hand me your notebook.”
I unbuttoned my breast pocket, handed her a tiny notepad I carried,
To scribble down ideas my narcotic intake often killed.
“What do you need it for?” I asked.
She flipped over the front cover and pointed to a sentence on the first page.
“Just as I thought!” She shouted.
“You use the word whore in almost every poem. You’re a misogynist with a reputation.
And I am not falling for your manipulative lines.”
I smiled. “But…I am a writer. All I have are words.”
“Then what the hell am I doing here with you?
You have no money, no property, I mean I paid for these drinks!”
“Hey I offered to pay…”
She drank the last of her wine
And executed its trace with a resounding gulp.
The force of which caused her throat to protrude,
Giving the impression that she had an Adam’s apple.
“Am I just a whore to you?”
“No, not at all. Come on…where’s this coming from?
I read the Second Sex. You know I respect women!
Equal, yes?”
“If that’s true and you believe me to be your equal,
You’ll stop using the word whore in your poems.”
“Listen, Listen…” I said. “I am a whore! I am a whore. And like most species
I can recognize my own kind. I call em’ as I see em.'”
She leaped off the barstool and began putting on her winter coat.
“Where are you going!?” I asked.
She stiffened her right index
And jammed it into my chest.
“I call em’ as I see em’ A.j. And you. You’re a fucking loser.
I can do better than this.”
Then she walked away.
I reached into my back pocket and grabbed my wallet.
I pulled out my last $20.00 bill and waved down the bartender.
A young woman with bleached blonde hair skipped along
To take my order. “Another whiskey?” She asked.
“Yeah,” I said “And make it a double.”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s