He writes me poetry

i'm a strange girl.
i go to bars by myself, to write.

to decompress. to be by myself around others.
to have a bit of scotch. to watch and be watched.

this night, there was a young man with glasses, at the far right end of the bar, where it wraps in to kiss the wall. contempletatively staring off into the distance, to the left of my face.

i too this night, was wearing my glasses. by the end of the day, they irritate my nose, and i worked with the image of myself reflected in the mirror behind the liquor bottles, alternatively taking them off... placing them in front of me, securing them into my curly head of hair, putting them on, taking them off again, placing them on the bar, putting them on again, then agitated, repeating the process, removing them and massaging the bridge of my nose.

alternatively, in my leatherbound graph paper journal, i wrote.

every so often, at some point or another in the glasses removed and replaced ritual, i would glance up, and find the gentleman at the end of the bar gazing in my direction. i would return a conteplative into the air stare, meanwhile trying to decipher if he was looking at me or not, at someone behind me, or inside to his minds eye. this happened a series of times, until no longer a question that he was infact looking at me. i put on different faces, each time it happened. then eventually embarrassed and aware that he was watching me, i grew self conscious. bite my lip and look away, you're still staring. you're almost smiling.

move. now.

i gathered myself, my stuff, i had come right from work. so much stuff. a jacket. my book. the bag, stuffed with books, mail, bills to handle. find a couch. tuck away. hiding, hide. writing, write.

into the ante room, this is where the band plays. bay windows. the room is empty still early as it is, and i walked in, waving hello to my rastas, walking arms full to the back. nothing intrigues me here, energetically. i turn to wander back and catch the ethiopian barhand blowing up at the chinese jaybird that is always here, a great dance partner, with about 3 working braincells. he has a mustache, thin, and a ponytail, and when he talks, you can hardly understand a thing he says.

jaybird had helped himself to the bar, and was serving the patrons free drinks. but ethiopia shouted respect at him. he's angry, and i rarely see the slender mello man angry. man! he said. you need to respect. why you come behind the bar? why, man? respect, man!

respect... it echoed in my mind as i walked away. respect.

behind the band was a couch to the side, a little table, and a corner where i decided to stash my load. helloing the drummer, i leaned in towards him, hugged, and asked if i could follow him for a bit.

he smiled at me, and asked why. i replied simply and plainly. "i just like being around you." his smile broadened, and a space in his eyes told me that he didn't believe me. "and why is that," he prompted. i shined the five year old at him and shrugged, acting as though it was beyond me, this reason. "i don't know, just something about you.... "

then i changed the subject, talking music, there is a woman i met on a train from new york to boston some months back, and would he meet her? shes brazilian, she has locks, i know he would love her. he nods, affirmatively. ya, bring her down, im really interested... you know i play brazilain music right.. i tell him in return, how very talented he is. he scoffs. "alright alright, just because you're my friend you don't have to make stuff up." i most certainly am not making it up, i laugh, and turn away. still holding my book, looking for a corner to tuck away in, the room is still empty, let me visit the twins.

you may already know my friend roots, older of the pair, i smoked a joint in a stuffy room with him last week this time, and i say my hellos again. his brother's son plays the piano, a beautiful young black boy that works at the whole foods in my neighborhood. something about it all makes me very happy... these people are good souls, and i like being around them. this night, he wants a cigarette, and i have one. but before we go back up stairs to have the joint and the talk and the visit...

there is a long haired indian, deliciously beautiful sitting on the couch before him. he introduces me to the boy, who happens to be border famous. a bass player, new to my city, hailing from sunny stretches, the other side of the coast, here playing with my favorite group. he looks older. oh, that long hair. half closed bedroom eyes. he's beautiful.

at this point, i know who i am chasing tonite.
after all, long hair always makes me a little wet.

**********************************************


its a funny night to be there, because my clothes are ultra casual. tennis shoes, a white puffy jacket vest. jeans. i thought i was rock climbing, but my partner had cancelled. a hard day at work. glasses that don't know whether to stay on my head or get stashed in my bag. hair big, unwashed. a sight. rockin it anyway.

i sat down and began shooting the shet with this mellow eyed beauty, playing the buddy card. he entertains my questions, humors the conversation. tells me how he plays for a band called _______. this band only one of the best bands in town. its only one of the most talented music groups i know. i look at him over my glasses and feign ignorance. "oh... i don't think i've ever heard of them...." i start. then laugh. "so are you going to play then, with these guys?" i challenge.

he shrugs indifference. cocks a knowing eyebrow and says, "bassists are always protective of their gigs."

meanwhile, my friend from the bar has entered the room, along with many others. he is standing on the steps, the three that come down the landing into this lower room. an eye on him through out. he is holding his drink, bopping his head, the band has begun, we are all starting to slip into this wednesday night magic carpet of soul sounding samba.

fame city jumps up here (apruptly) and grabs his bass (laying out and ready) and starts to play, jumping up and down dramatically. long hair in his face. i can't see him really because there is a speaker in the way, and a part of me senses he is showing off, therefore i actually have no problem redirecting my attention to roots, who has joined me on the couch. and when he leaves and i start writing again.

shortly later the sexy comes back. i smile at him politely, and lose myself in music. in my graph paper book. my friend from the bar, still elevated on the steps, still smiling. he finds my eye, looks directly at me. i look back at him, then away. embarrassed. honestly, this time.

i begin to think of how this one wants to buy me a drink. i think that long haired fame has gotten enough of me for now. how its time to move on. i start to plot the attack for the night.

moving away from both of them, i crossed the room and joined my older rasta again, as he sits letting the music fill the room and rolling a joint. i motion for it, and he hands it to me, telling me to keep my hand down, to be discreet. i make sure both men have a good view of me though, in with the band, grooving to the beat, oblivious to them. im not even mentioning number three, an indirect target that once upon i likedm but never got attention from. tonight however, he has his eyes on me. 12 o clock, number three. 1 o'clock the man from the bar, and at 2 o'clock, sir rockstar.

smoking. dancing. upstairs bathroom back rejoin the bassist and up again. dancing. dancing. the boy from the bar is now even closer, dancing as well, next to me. i act like i don't see him. he pretends he doesn't need to talk to me. we dont dance together, we arent far apart.

my dancing fluid, his... undescribable. jerky. beat fitting, but almost like a duck... enthusiastic. confounding in the sense that you needed to understand why he moved like that.

finally, i break the unspoken. "tell me your name?"
he receives me, at attention. without surprise. "my name is leonardo!! i am italian!!"

a step back. whoa.
he naturally, leans in.

takes me by the arm. "i have been watching you, all night!"

"have you?"

"oh, yes!" the accent is thick, thick italian. he looks white, a round face, lighter hair. dark rimmed spectacles. "and i think you must have a blog somewhere! tell me, where is it! i want to read what you write!"

oh my. an enthusiast.
my writing. he has no idea what he is asking for!
i lean back more, my eyes wide, i am amused, but sufficiently chased here that i actually am pulling back, and oh fortituous chance! the rockstar walks by right now, i exaggerate my mock alarm about the italian and send a save me look at him, as he passes by. his eyebrow twitches.. and he continues moving through the crowd.

i look at leonardo. simply, "do you want to buy me a drink?"
"oh yes! what are you drinking!?" i want cranberry and vodka.

he takes my hand, and i let myself get pulled to the bar, passing the longhaired rockstar on the way.


**********************************************

once at the bar, he turns to me again. "a blog! you must tell me where it is!"

i can't possibly. where does my writing live? on my board? in secret blogs or myspace pages restricted to friends? in my email accounts, in correspondences? and what do i even write about? nothing coherant anyway. thoughts. musings. and this stranger, the very idea!

just because you want it, does not obligate me to give it to you.

i change the subject, and say, "you have been watching me all night, have you..."

and his answer. "yes. i was watching your glasses, watching you taking them on and off. it was quite fascinating. and your writing, you were writing. i very much liked it."

"you liked the glasses, or the act of removing and replacing the glasses?" here i leaned into the bar to catch the etheopian's attention.

"it was The Act of removing and replacing them. most certainly."

something about him. smarter than he seemed. perceptive. and chasing me. but something about that makes me nervous. so it was time to vamoos. also, i no longer had the rockstar in eye sight. a single moment of panic hits, shit. now what.

so, i took my leave of him.

eventually through dancing and luring other stargazers in close enough to reject, the indian longhair reappeared. i laughed something at him about protecting me, showing real relief when he popped back up. i asked if he wanted to run away from the place and smoke at my apt, not so far away. he thought for a moment then accepted the invitation.

but just before i left, i said good bye to the italian leonardo. on the dance floor as he danced like a duck, and looked at me with probing eyes, i gave him a single instruction:

"if you want to know where i write, post a missed connection for me, in tomorrow's craigslist mc section."

beat

"you want me, to post, a missed connection, for you, on craigslist?"

"yes. i will look for you."

and i turned, and left, taking the bassist home, leaving the italian behind. dodging hands all night, company kept all night, as beautiful as you are, you're just another boy, serving tea in the morning, eating feta, talking life philosphically. a friend along this time for my morning metro ride. my number on the back of a receipt from the back of my changepurse wallet.. ill call you. please do.

a busy day at work. forgetting to remember to check anything, until a little thought comes, at the end of the day.

so i checked, and found the title:

repressed poet--if only the axis of evil looked like you.

regardless of whether you leave your glasses on, or not. Indeed, watching you decide on the matter was almost as intriguing as wondering what were you writing on your notebook. there must be a blog where i and the world should be able to read what's going on in your obviously fertile mind. tell me where i am from. let's write stuff up together.

the rockstar still hasn't called. but the italian did as was asked.

scoring on the long hair, with a story called i met someone famous;
held back on even a number with an intelligent foreigner, and now he writes me poetry.