Gabriella Torres
The Turkey's Nest Part I
Chasing dreams at the bottom
of a glass, one part bourbon,three parts hopes, misplaced
desires and our heroic delusionsabout poetry, love, and the next
afterhours bar. Certain likethe next round of drinks, we
were young Americans, raisedon denim, teen spirit and the
belief that we were meant to besomething, at least for as long
as the night would last whichwe hoped was forever so long
as the jukebox kept playing"Don't Stop Believing" and we
could pretend that we hadn't.
May 5th 2012
Nothing can replace those
warm Brooklyn nightswhen expectations and whiskey
were substitutes for loveand the jukebox at the bar
played along to the storyof our bruises and bones so
keenly aware of the soundtrackto our self-destruction, inevitable
like melting ice at the bottomof the glass thinking somehow
it was beautiful to hold boyswho wanted to make girlfriends
out of paper or stones, somethingto keep at home in the cupboards
while chasing one neon lightto the next until Thursday
was a Sunday in another timeand place and the sunset you
watched from a stranger's rooftopmade promises that of course
would be replaced, reproduced,the latest backlash of late nights
finally a cue that the endless summersare only endless in songs, the chill
of fall already nipping at your heels.