In Vice, I Thrust Myself

Sometimes, I feel more obscure
than an indie snob’s entire iTunes library.
Like the ever-fading flyer
(of a band that broke up
three days after the advertised date)
taped on a paint-chipped wall,
I stand, hidden by the white noise
of (seemingly) perfectly-sculpted strangers;
of the boundless aura of my friends;
of the jukebox that never plays my songs.
(There seems to be more Ed Hardy aficionados here;
glass of Red Bull and vodka in one hand,
and a mirror to appreciate themselves in the other.)
Aside from my second shot of whiskey,
the only sensation I am feeling
is the vibrating timbre of my phone.
Nothing to get excited about, though,
it was my cell phone provider reminding me
that a payment is due by week’s end.
It is just another random evening
and I am indulging in my vice, in the hopes
that it will lead to a pleasure
beyond my fondness of the drink.
Time to order another round
and to see how the evening will progress.

©2009 José-Ariel Cuevas

Comments

[DMZ]

Another excellent scene as usual. In SF the jukebox always plays your songs. No Javier to pump the machine at the beginning of a shift at Cinebar!