I could actually share my thoughts with

People who work in-the-loop 
in old Beat bars 
think they are something. 
Abuse me now 
with their authority to 86 me. 
So I can write about them. 
They can't see 
I'm not willing to sell myself--
become who they tell me to be
--succumb to their pressures. 
As a tour group oblivious 
to all else gathers around me 
seeking out Beat history 
and news of once local writers 
now dead. 
All seem to feel I'm nothing--
the way they observe, 
dismiss me from their thoughts 
and attentions. Yet I know 
that I am real.



the ambivalence of gift exchange

She smears red Chanel lipstick 
on her fingers tapping her lips 
fake-yawning as I spoke 
to her across the barroom table 
she'd sat the glass of white wine 
down on.     For me? 
She'd paid for, carried over 
from the bar, I hadn't even ordered. 
She'd come seeking a reunion 
I hadn't asked for, she insisted upon, 
to give herself further opportunity to 
behave badly, 
giving me all the wrong things, 
annoy me into giving her attention. 

But these ploys of hers did not work 
on me in the expected manner. 
Instead, induced me into ignoring her 
then avoiding her, even vehemently. 
I just had to...