Liquid Dancer

Liquid Dancer
By: James Dubeau

At the dance floor edge
He stands
Amongst the kids
Covered with glowing baubles
Dancing
Twirling
Writhing
Under the strobe lights
He does not belong there
His plaid shorts do not belong
In the sea of black
Neither does his
White tank top under
Unbuttoned linen shirt
His baseball cap
Pulled low
Covering what should have been
Ashamed eyes
But yet
When the right bass moves him
He takes a step
Then a second
Onto the dance floor
His hands move
In liquid motions
Swirling
Around invisible hovering balls
As if he perfected dancing
Into a martial art
Oblivious
To the gyrating couples
Quivering around him
As his movements
Take him further
Onto the dance floor
Closer
To the reverberating speakers
Flanking the DJ

Barroom Band

Barroom Band
By: James Dubeau

The barroom band rocks
Swaying
Jumping
Singing
Quickened beats skitter
Across checkered tile
Guitar and drums
Barroom standards
Set the tempo
Leaving the sax
Xylophone
And saw
To fill in odd melodies
Intoxicating the night air
Throwing patrons
With beers in hand
About the joint

Feeling Awkward

Feeling Awkward
By: James Dubeau

There are times
Where you see someone
Say hi
And it seems
They are talking to you
But when you turn
Smile
And say hey
A quizzical look
Washes over them
And now
You are left
Feeling awkward
Then there are times
When you see your friend’s truck
At least you think it’s his truck
It’s blue like his
With a white top
Like his
But when you enter the bar
And order a drink
He is no where to be seen
You are left
Feeling awkward
Then there are times
When in the crowded bar
You hear your friend’s voice
Coming from the bathroom
From behind the bar
From the far side of the room
But when you look
High and low
He is not to be seen
And you are left
Feeling awkward

Patriarch Patron

Patriarch Patron
By: James Dubeau

At the edge
Of the long
Wooden
Bar
He sits
Not an emotion shows
Upon his face
As music plays
And rowdy cheers
Float on by
His black suit
Masks his aging body
In dark shadows
His white beard
And head of hair
Seemingly float
A pocket watch
Glitters in the faint light
Silver chain
Reaches to his
Vest pocket
His eyes
Seem to study
The ticking hands
As I return
My attention
To my companions
He looks to me
A gleam in his eye
And then
He is
Gone

Mating Dance

Mating Dance
By: James Dubeau

Lightning bugs scatter
About the spotlight
Dancing hear and there
In search of a mate
Not far below
In the beer garden
Men and women
Do the same
Smiles on faces
Beer in glasses
As the mating dance
Is perpetrated

More Bar Haikus

This is a haiku
It is very dear to me
I love my haiku

When out and about
Only one thing upsets me
There is no water

Nineteen forty three
It’s the battle of Midway
Next to Arkanoid

Let us do mushrooms
It must not be a bad trip
Not like last time dude

Why do I smile
Do I just hate the bastard
Or do I love me

Jack Chance Case Files - Part 4: On The Lake

I gave Beth a call to see what she could shake loose about Robert Wallic but there was no answer at the office. The girl must still have been out on her errands. Thoughts from the morning rolled through my mind as I ate my eggs and sipped my coffee at the diner down on third. There wasn’t much to go on so far, but that was to be expected this early in the game. If it was any easier then any schmuck could do this job.

The afternoon was spent combing the streets of the neighborhood asking around if anyone had seen poor Robert. Every pawn shop and dive bar gave me the same response, they didn’t know no nothing much less recognize the face in the picture I swiped from his place. Leg work is the long boring part but it passes the time. It also gave me a chance to re-familiarize myself with the lay of the land. By dusk I had done my fair share of busy work and made my way to Mike’s on the Lake.

It was late enough that the dinner crowd was starting to thin but early enough that the regulars had yet to show. By passing the dining room I sat at the bar, ordered the fish fry, and listened in to the conversations that welled up around me. By the time I finished my meal I gathered that Julie was the usual weeknight bartender and that the billiards league was in the toilet.

Julie was a good bartender. She paid attention to the regulars, pouring heavy, and kept her eyes on the lowlife scum that wandered in. Chatting her up and tipping well got me an in or two. She remembered Robert, quite fondly actually. He usually sat at the bar with a notebook and wrote poetry all night. Every night that he was in he would buy her a drink and slipped her a poem with the tip. She saw their petty banter as a little game, a little back and fourth to pass the time until closing. He had stopped showing up a while back and she missed the entertainment.

“You asking about Robert?” A tall skinny guy asked me as Julie finished her story. I nodded and Julie went back to her business. “Robert’s a good kid. Doesn’t talk much, but he’s a good kid. It’s funny how he sits here night after night pretending to be a writer but you talk to him and he can’t tell a good story to save his life.”

I bought my new found friend a round and inquired as to what he meant. “Well,” he continued between sips, “take the last time I saw him for instance. We got to talking about my last trips to Vegas and New York. Clients were tripping over themselves to take me out to bars and strip clubs, trying to butter me up for their next purchase. Robert tried to compete. I’ll never forget the conversation. He tried to tell me that some smoking hot blonde was all over him and got him a new job. It was funny how he kept tripping over his words. He kept leaving out details and interrupting himself to try to put those details back in. it was a mess. I told him that if he wanted to snag that blonde he was talking about that he should work on his storytelling more than his poetry.”

I asked my new friend if he knew what the new job was, he said that it was Humboldt’s something or other. It was at least something to go on. I bought another round and listened in to his tales from Vegas and New York. Any further work would have to wait until morning.

Bomb Shelter

“Honey, we need to talk,” was the phrase I walked into when I came home last night. After a long day at the office I was not ready for that bombshell. All day long it is nothing but problems and complaints, customers calling to complain or employees stepping into my office to complain. Nothing but. “I can get cheaper prices elsewhere,” or, “the printer is out of toner and I don’t know how to change it,” every day.

When I come home all that I want to do is sit back, have a beer, watch some TV, and go to sleep. The last thing that I want to deal with is the little woman saying, “Honey, we need to talk.”

Times like these I envy my friends at work. They avoid these hard hitting questions by going out with the guys every night. Sure, it may get expensive over time, but the security it provides is worth it. If I had just gone out with them tonight then I wouldn’t be looking around for a bomb shelter to hide in.

Random Bar Haiku

I am a poet
I bet you’ll never know it
I’ll rhyme every time

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Whiskey is my friend
I would drink it all day long
And into the night

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I like my Jack cold
Do not serve it to me warm
Best it is with coke

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Silently snow falls
Field is peacefully silent
A good day to live

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Beautiful woman
Sits across the bar from me
We will never speak

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I enjoy drinking
Jack and coke is so yummy
I can drink all night