on a stool.

on a stool,
in a bar
that doesn’t exist anymore,
i was talking to this man.
i mean he was talking;
telling me
some real deep stuff.
so full of it,
all deep in it,
up to our knees,
so much so,
no room for treading.

“they kept on trucking ,”
he kept on saying.
he said something like
that, “yes we can. yes we can,”
so i became a train.
i think. i think. i can i think.
i can think,
or choose not to. about anything,
so i decided to listen in.

he took a drink, and responded with
“i am the man, and when you leave
you’ll tell the folks,
you’ve met the man,
and all is good.”
i stared blankly
without filling them in-
the gaps in space
and conversation.

he claimed i was Middle-Eastern.
i swore that i was Mexican.
he worked as a mechanic,
but had once been a gravedigger.
thus was quite familiar with the dead.
he drank to join them soon.
he called me a damn liar
for not admitting that
i was not Mexican
but Palestinian.
there was just no convincing
even when i spoke in Spanish.

he mentioned my people
would soon be free.
we’d all be free.
we’d soon be dead.

10.26.08.