I'll post my tribute (or whatever it is), then post a link so you can check out more of the tributes by some wonderful writers for one of our Masters.
***
(for Joe Pulver)
It’s 2:30 A.M.
It’s always 2:30 A.M. at the Bohren & der
Club of Gore. It’ a place, not a
band. A distortion in reality. A yellow dream, soundtrack of slow jazz.
Doom jazz.
This is how you spend your Saturday nights.
Waiting for her.
You’ve just stumbled home from the club. You’re not even sure how you made it
home. The door to your rathole apartment
is ajar. You push it open, slumping
against the wall as you enter. Lights
flicker, could be the TV. Perhaps you
left it on, but what of the door? Were
you so stupid as to have left the door open?
So anxious to leave and blot out your existence in the bottom of a shot
glass?
Then you see her, the girl of your dreams. The flickering light caresses her as you wish
you were doing. Just as suddenly, she’s
gone. Was she really there? Perhaps it’s just a hallucination because
you’re drunk. Again. But she laughs, you hear that much. In a sustained, slow-motion flash of light,
you see her lips, only her lips, and want to kiss them.
But all she does is laugh.
All you do is want.
Head-nod wrecking ball drop and awaken at your regular table
at the club.
Cassie dances on the stage, slipping out of something barely
there in the first place.
That something is your dream.
The tattoos on her flesh move as she does: a winding
hallway, a door ajar, flickering lights…
At the center of her torso, you see the woman’s face just
beneath the ample swoop of bosom and desire.
A place where the sweat tastes like nectar. Not even that could distract you as you stare
into the woman’s eyes at the center of Cassie’s torso.
The woman stares back.
You make the swift decision to rise from your seat and
approach Cassie. She undulates, rolls
her body like the unfolding, incoming tide, and the woman speaks.
Whispers.
You cannot make out her words as the slow, doomy jazz ricochets
like lazy shrapnel all around you.
You move closer and Cassie twitches. The woman on her torso
winks.
Whispers again.
You lean in closer, so close…
Two goons grab you by the arms.
“Watch it, Mustache Boy.
Don’t touch the merchandise.,” Goon # 1 says.
“Pervert,” Goon # 2 says, then turns to Goon # 1 and says, “Mustache
Boy. Priceless.”
“But she was whispering.
Whispering to me.”
“Yeah, yeah, she whispers to everybody. You’re nothing special,” Goon #1 says.
“Nothing special,” Goon #2 reiterates.
“But…”
And the woman’s face on Cassie’s torso starts to laugh. In a sustained, slow-motion flash of light,
you see her lips, only her lips, and want to kiss them.
But all she does is laugh.
All you do is want.
Head-nod wrecking ball drop and awaken at your regular table
at the club.
Again.
This is how you spend your Saturday nights. Your Sunday nights. Your Monday, Tuesday, WednesdayThursdayFriday
nights.
Waiting for her.
You pick up the cigarette that’s never eaten by the ash at
the end not in your mouth and take a deep drag.
Smoke fills you but does not warm you.
Just like her.
The woman.
The woman you’re waiting for.
The woman you will never, ever kiss…
…but that’s not where this tale will end.
You reach into the thick caterpillar resting above your lip
and it hands you a red pencil.
“No, that’s not how it ends at all,” you say, and get to
work.
***
Here's the link to Mike Griffin's blog, where he's collecting the posts.
Enjoy!
