I'm at the Jack In The Box next to the auto mechanic
drinking a vanilla milkshake while reading a book
that my drunk poet buddy threw me,
examining cultural history in the context of
a radical reinterpretation of Freudian Psychoanalysis.
It made me think of last night, coming out of
the Ozzy Rabbit Lodge, a local bar where they have
a mural of Ruby Shooting Oswald, on the wall.
I was vomiting in the parking lot, just below
the sign reading 'Smile you're on camera."
It could have been the $1.25 PBR beer special
or perhaps the phone call with a friend
who said; "Faith in anything is meaningless,
we are all just a bunch of goofy monkeys
who only evolved intellect because it was sexy."
It made me think of my beloved, before she left.
We had gotten so close and familiar that
when we were really drunk and she decided that
I needed to vomit, she would hold me down
and stick her finger down my throat until I did.
Which is a pretty odd thing to see, yourself
vomiting on the hand of a woman you love,
particularly an Anal Retentive Germaphobe.
The third time she did this was by a swimming pool
drinking till 6am with my poet buddy,
the same night he threw me the book, as he
watched us, shaking his head, a little weirded out.
He later suggested some type of Oedipal Mother
archetype control dominance dynamic.
The other friend suggested a more straight up
sexual reverse penetration/ejaculation
play rape reenactment dynamic.
Either way, admittedly, I did get off on it
in some vague not quite explainable way.
As I'm finishing the milkshake, the thought
occurs to me, that when my mad love returns
beyond simply seeing a therapist,
it might behoove me to read up on and study,
hell, even become and expert on,
Freudian psychoanalytical concepts, especially
this business about Eros and Thanatos urges.
I think we've really got something there.
Outside the Jack In The Box I vomited
about half the Vanilla milkshake
onto the pavement while some Ginger kid
on a motorcycle, looked at me strangely.
Leaned over forward, clearing my throat,
spitting like that, made me cry just a little bit.
It reminded me of her.
A heart no longer
beats
within this chest.
I left mine,
gently placed upon
an old yellow blanket
in the park,
on a sunny
September afternoon.
Along side
a guitar
a glass of Merlot
and a book from
the used book store.
Look!
Look!
I can see it clearly,
this image,
it is there!
The blanket
is not balled up
in the trunk of the car,
my true love has not died,
and I do not
drink Merlot
alone!
Paul Sexton is a poet living in Arlington, Texas. He has been hosting open mics for fifteen years. He has published many small chapbooks, a Post Modern Poetry Novel, and has another Poetry book in the works. He has appeared in numerous online and print magazines over the years and also in two anthologies, In Our Own Words: A Generation Defining Itself Vol. II and Unlikely Stories of the Third Kind. "September Afternoon" previously appeared in Gutter Eloquence.