EIGHT BAR STOOLS

almost every night at ten
they held court at the Cedar Street Tavern
a landscape of rebel poets and painters
defying rules that might be formalized
talking jazz and baseball
guzzling eight oz jugs of beer
drunk

Kerouac was always at stool one
trying to find the next word
another ashtray to piss in
and the road ahead
never sorry

Pollack would sit next to him
dripping paint dropping spills
before kicking in the men's room door
pissing on the unstreched canvas
never missing

Corso sat at stool three
knowing he had been saved
after kicking in cafe window
finding words in prison
never graduating

de Kooning sits at stool four
feeling the desperation in himself
trembling on the bar stool
throwing his melodrama of paint
before falling

Creely sits between the two painters
sitting so patiently
no knowing who he is
presuming he is a poet
never regrettable

Rothko sits in stool six
never being moved by colors
searching for their emotions
and expressing his non-self
always intimate

O'Hara sits on the next stool
waiting for his next catastrophe
eyes vague looking away
being sick to his stomach
too much vodka

Kline always sits at stool eight
looking familiar in his blueness
with images of his emotions
painting in black and white
eight bar stools