Sports Bar: Kansas City, On The Way To Dallas

Only the surgeon knows how his hands shake
Why they tremble so
But revelations are too easily confused with truth
The mathematics of the story too convoluted to know
And so there is silence.

[a man caught between two drinks and three]

[alone at the bar nearest to the hotel]

To order another drink, to order another life

Who am I? the man asks.
It seems like such a simple question.
One day he snuck out of work
Just to feel alive
Following an idea
To touch the edges of a woman’s leg slowly, slowly.
Clothing bunched on the floor. Dried wine in a glass.
A matinee. Darkness. Beauty.
The word mistress is such a lovely word
It should never be used in the court of law.

Reaching out

[a man caught between three drinks and four]

A lifetime spent at parties he didn’t want to attend.
He wished that he’d kept every list he’d ever made.
All of the check marks, the things crossed off.
Or the things not crossed off.
The things not on the list.
He had health insurance. He didn’t have a brain tumor.
Cognacs. Espresso in Rome. A stripper’s sparkling shoes.
And yet.
Do you know Toulouse Lautrec’s painting of Jane Avril?
Claire. A dare. Long ago. Gone.
The kick of her leg. All of life a kick.
Higher and higher.
{Is it better to kick or be kicked at?}
It’s something that no other animal can do, she said
The courtship of death through reckless disregard
A prayer of revelry.

There’s something about not giving a fuck that leads to other things.
Like not giving a fuck about not giving a fuck.
And maybe even fucking.

To lead to other things

To kick, to kick, to kick, to kick

He wished he would have loved better.
He wished he would have loved more.

[a man caught between four drinks and five]
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About Grant Faulkner

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Grant Faulkner is the author of Bonjour Mes Amis, which has been translated into Greek and Latvian. He's currently at work on Au Revoir Mes Amis. In 1980, he finished second in the 15-year-old division of the Iowa clogging championships.
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