Another Empty Glass
Another Empty Glass
by Matthew Mulder
I notice something missing. It's too smoky to read the small clock behind the bar, and I never wear a watch. How long has it been? Must be getting late. Still holding it - squeezing it actually - and trying to extract more porter for my melancholy.
But something is missing.
I keep looking at the bar and the band that's playing Radiohead cover songs. Their energy makes me feel old. Their lyrics make me feel dumb. And their girlfriends make me feel ancient. The oatmeal porter feels heavy in my belly as a familiar young lady turns my way and says hello. She says how are you and says she needs someone older in her life. She's trying to make conversation the way she tries to seduce the drummer, who beats the skins to an alt-rock anthem I don't know, but wish I did. Maybe that's what's missing.
I squeeze the chalice of my sorrow. It's bone dry, and, by the looks of it, it's been dry for some time.
It must be late. There's no ring of moisture on the cardboard coaster with the green pub emblem. All hope is gone, evaporated into the cigarette clouds of the people around me as they listen to Kerouac or the Radio's song falsetto into the crash of reverb from the guitarist's sonic wail.
What's missing won't fit into the cup I hold in my left hand marked with a wedding band and a cheap, gold bracelet. That young familiar woman with the black leather coat looks at her empty glass, cuing me to buy her another. I wonder if she knows what's missing. I wonder if I could gather up a cup full of hope floating through the atmosphere and contain it in this empty glass and save it until tomorrow and drink it for breakfast.
Or maybe I could crawl inside and lick the residue, the hope stain that lines the bottom of my sorrow.
She raises her glass to the bar maid and I see an amber glimmer of hope in the bottom of her tumbler. Its amber remains swirl for a moment, then disappear into the bar maid's hand.
:::
Bio: I am a theory slut from Asheville--a true elite of the postmodernists. I collect avant-garde Pinoy hiphop dub tapes, eat critical theory journal articles for breakfast, bath in Icelandic mythology and read ancient manuscripts for light reading.
:::
Matt Mulder
Mulder_Matthew@hotmail.com
http://1000blacklines.blogspot.com/
by Matthew Mulder
I notice something missing. It's too smoky to read the small clock behind the bar, and I never wear a watch. How long has it been? Must be getting late. Still holding it - squeezing it actually - and trying to extract more porter for my melancholy.
But something is missing.
I keep looking at the bar and the band that's playing Radiohead cover songs. Their energy makes me feel old. Their lyrics make me feel dumb. And their girlfriends make me feel ancient. The oatmeal porter feels heavy in my belly as a familiar young lady turns my way and says hello. She says how are you and says she needs someone older in her life. She's trying to make conversation the way she tries to seduce the drummer, who beats the skins to an alt-rock anthem I don't know, but wish I did. Maybe that's what's missing.
I squeeze the chalice of my sorrow. It's bone dry, and, by the looks of it, it's been dry for some time.
It must be late. There's no ring of moisture on the cardboard coaster with the green pub emblem. All hope is gone, evaporated into the cigarette clouds of the people around me as they listen to Kerouac or the Radio's song falsetto into the crash of reverb from the guitarist's sonic wail.
What's missing won't fit into the cup I hold in my left hand marked with a wedding band and a cheap, gold bracelet. That young familiar woman with the black leather coat looks at her empty glass, cuing me to buy her another. I wonder if she knows what's missing. I wonder if I could gather up a cup full of hope floating through the atmosphere and contain it in this empty glass and save it until tomorrow and drink it for breakfast.
Or maybe I could crawl inside and lick the residue, the hope stain that lines the bottom of my sorrow.
She raises her glass to the bar maid and I see an amber glimmer of hope in the bottom of her tumbler. Its amber remains swirl for a moment, then disappear into the bar maid's hand.
:::
Bio: I am a theory slut from Asheville--a true elite of the postmodernists. I collect avant-garde Pinoy hiphop dub tapes, eat critical theory journal articles for breakfast, bath in Icelandic mythology and read ancient manuscripts for light reading.
:::
Matt Mulder
Mulder_Matthew@hotmail.com
http://1000blacklines.blogspot.com/
posted by ash | 5:12 PM
5 Comments:
I like it, good writing. Enjoyed your stuff at Malaprops,
chall
Weepy! How utterly depressing.
"I squeeze the chalice of my sorrow.It's bone dry, and, by the looks of it, it's been dry for some time."
Beautiful.
Interesting. I think it might be a bit too smart for me.
theseus, thanks. malaprops? thanks again (i forgot what i read). did you read?
sweet tea, thanks. my goal is to make everyone cry or drink.
thanks, eddo. it's too smart for me too.
Matt,
I was the second reader; the 32 line one sentence poem entitled
"Bittersweet"
chall
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