It always goes back
to these crowded bars—
talking of nothing
in between sips of beer foam
it always goes back to
the stage where they hammer
out love bites into sound,
beat their feet with the pulse
of a hundred lungs inflating
staring into the spotlight of
a vagabond horizon.
These weirdos, jock heads, stoners,
yupsters, post hippie-hipsters,
free-love megalomaniacs, dead poets, these
burnouts, these forgotten souls
look a lot like me.
And I'm wading through their
choruses of self-deprecation
humming my own refrain.
-- Damian Rucci
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