Poetry by JC Snyder

in the bathroom of the dirty bar,
she hits up a line,
that white dust, like angel wings ground up,

sniffing she walks to the bar skinny,
her usual red wine glass,
so plum and rich, waiting patiently,
her confidante, her lover,

god the music is fast,
the wine is sharp and biting, fast,
the drumming bass beats,
her heart beats hard, fast,

somehow she’s up in front now,
tossing hips and long hair,
feeling her tits, thighs,
swirling down and up, a kick,
wearing platform stiletto heels,

the bearded men drink their Budweiser cans,
the leather jackets talk of riding,
their attention turns to her, a long minute,
then,
back to Harleys, football,
silent tackles on the five TV screens,
a Monday night tradition,
they’ve seen her all before,

she tastes the wine on her lips, speaking fast, to no one,
“i’m twenty, and
undiscovered, washed under,
drowned”
she whispers more, feet tapping,
hips swaying,

they always let her down in the morning,
such a fall,
always that big empty hallow hole,
skinny arms and legs tangled alone,
the halo tossed careless by the bed,
next to the padded bra, red thong,
wings in tatters on the bathroom floor,
broken wine glass spilling red,

next night the white line ready,
waiting patiently,

Written right after college, after my introduction to the corporate world. I did have some terrible insomnia then due in part to my friends who played some great music late at night. And well, we all know us Geminis have those split personalities…BTW, check out Susan Miller (astrology zone) if you are into horoscopes.

Gemini

I have The Verve on headphones
and a bottle of tap water
dressed as Evian
and a loose fitting cardigan that
might be my mother’s. My daylight
look is un-glamour. My smile is wide.
My corporate mind works only hard enough
to avoid boredom. I see
my outlook as partly sunny considering
these co-workers who laugh
and schedule happy hour drinks.

Days turn to nights;
I carry on with my
habitual insomnia.

I have two crinkled dollars
in cobblestone Fells and
wonder what
dark fishnet freaks think of me. One time
they yelled prophetically,
“where you going?” and I didn’t reply.
Yet, I hear the night crickets
and I chirp with them to the Horse
for a surreal scene of bebop cool; an
irrational scene of lost legs
doomed to be tired in the morning
but glad for it.

In star-read, tousled dreams,
we discover the meaning
inherent in the two.

He wanted.

One more hit and he would
nod off into that euphoric world
of soft cool skin,
lazy limbs,
unconcerned, untouchable,
free of the sin of the world.

An ephemeral release.

Then the roar,
the low tide like the darkest pit of hell – burning and clawing
and depression so intense it sucks the breath straight
from his heaving lungs.
Where are they now while he shakes skinny in the corner;
are they scared to talk about dying?

The streets aren’t;
their asphalt teeth vomit up the junk he needs.
Only the old get older and suffer longer – not him.

He is immediate gratification; a take when you can, while you can.
It is about what they will never understand –
everyone is trying to escape.
just the methods are different.

He wanted more and got it.
He wanted peace and got that too.

We’re still scared to talk about dying. We run and run and run.

(to mike. r.i.p.)