At The Bar Again - Prose Crown Poem

While taking a piss in a bar’s restroom,

I stare into a thin weblike crack above a urinal

and think to myself that if I were to vanish from

this world and disappear into that crack, say crawl

into it by somehow miniaturizing if I condense,

the odds are good no one would notice I was away.

In fact some, if they noticed my absence,

might feel an odd, inexplicable sense of relief. Say,

some might even feel a bit of contentment, pleasure. 

This is true. The world is better off with some  

people gone. Our society will not measure, 

or distinguish lives of bread, from lives of crumb.

Some people truly do not need to be here.

In fact one of them, me, will disappear.


In fact one of them, me, will disappear.

I could easily just go. Zip up my shorts

and just go. First I’d finish up my beer

of course. Maybe stay a little, watch some sports

Then I’m out of here. Take a cab.

I don’t have many personals I’d like to take,

and of course I wouldn’t tell my dad he’d just blab

about how I’d never really gotten a break

like someone successful in show business.

No I’d probably just go nowhere fast 

like my career in the register business.

I used to be in customer sales though. It didn’t last.

But that’s all done now. Here’s to people thinking I’m dead.

Or maybe I could actually die instead.


Or maybe I could actually die instead. 

It wouldn’t be to difficult I don’t think. 

All I’d have to do is blow a bullet through my head,

or I could easily stick my face in the restroom’s sink,

clog the drain, run some water and drown. 

Well actually those options wouldn’t work because I do

not own a gun, and there isn’t a gun shop in town,

and I don’t have the guts to see a drowning plan go through.

What I do have, is a knife. 

A deluxe folding pocket knife featuring a 2.8 inch blade,

(it was a gift from an ex-wife)

and carries a quick open thumb stud that I paid

over seventy dollars for give or take.

I wonder how much it would really ache.


I wonder how much it would really ache. 

Would it ache as much as being born?

It doesn’t seem wrong when I wake

up each day to my own screams. Torn

each night by the guilt of my own failure.

The life I chose for myself, one my father

didn’t want for me, the “your

mother died because you never bother

to listen” life, a life his father before him probably didn’t

want for me either. But sometimes the choices we make

are guaranteed failures. Sometimes they aren’t

even choices at all. I can’t choose to wake 

just as much as I can’t choose to be born. By

what I know, I know I can choose to die. 


What I know, I know I can choose to die.

Because life is pain. Anyone who 

says differently says a lie

and is trying to sell you something. So

what do I do? I leave the knife in 

my pocket alone. No use killing myself in a bar.

Bartender might actually think I hated his gin

so much I went and slit my throat. Far 

to messy. No I’d prefer to be a bit

more eccentric. Funny that you’re

nobody ‘til somebody kills you. It

is a sublime feeling of being sure

of something, suicide. I have power, control.

I can feel something beating, my heart is coal. 


I can feel something beating, my heart is coal. 

A black, charred lump, easily consumed by

flames of jealously and revulsion. Weathered coal,

shattered, cracked, and grounded down to fuel me through my 

days of insults and calamity. It comes from 

the fossilized remains of an amorphous organic childhood,

trampled by a dinosaur of disappointment, topped off with some

of its smelly ass ancient dino “hope” shit. Should 

I run out of fuel, I chisel off a bit from another’s heart,

usually from a relationship or friendship. 

Mine is a shard of coal, piercing its emotions or part

of emotions through my chest. digging its chip

into the edges as I breathe a silent noise.

Death is an escape everyone enjoys.


Death is an escape everyone enjoys

to wish on those 

everyone annoys.

Thus begs to suppose

that those annoyed detest

their birth’s causation

explained as the best

of a bad situation.

My body is nearing sixty

as my mind is nearing eight.

A slit throat sounds nifty

while drowning in a sink ain’t.

These are my thoughts, of dread and gloom

While taking a piss in a bar’s restroom.


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Comments 1 comment

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rustee 5 years ago from Detroit, Michigan USA

I like this! Reminds me of me at a certain point of my life. Could be a part of my future also.

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