Writers, criminals, dharma bums, poets and lovers have always found comfort in the low down motels in the less desirable parts of cities- No lease to sign or credit to check, the brown skinned man behind the glass only wants cash and gives you a key to a hot shower and a bed – Television and heat! Away from the cold wind! Summer breezes float through the windows as do the moans from the next room over as you open a can of Spam and one more beer from the paper sack- Weeks go by and you learn some of the names who come and go with the wind and wonder how much longer with life be just these four walls? HBO and clean towels! Mini fridge full of beer!
Months march toward fall and the mirror tells your age and shaving becomes an option as does everything but a simple routine called life – motel life
Winter is gray and the windows rattle while you pack your battered boxes of stuff and get ready to move one more time as that old road calls- “Come back soon” the room calls and you do, again and again.
Page 21- 22 in California Beat Poetry Number Four Dharma Angels by John K Bucher
I wrote this book, or I guess parts of it from 2006-2008. It was published in 2010. The short story was a continuation of one of the characters in my first novel – The Suicide Cowboys. It was during this period I moved from Denver to Ft Collins and about once a week, my son Josh and I would drive up into the mountains to Estes Park and spend the day. We would park in town and walk up a nature trail past pools of trout and grazing elk to the the Stanley Hotel. The old hotel was where Stephen King got the story for The Shinning. We would have a drink at the bar and talk to the employees about their own supernatural experiences while they were on duty. Later we would retreat down the trail again and eat lunch at Lonigans Saloon, and Irish pub. I would go home with a car full of ideas and stories. This book holds some of them.
Just Me and the Night
Go away loneliness I want to drink Vodka
perverse drunken logic beckons me to the party
walk straight damn it the cops are watching I think
oh my God why, such a waste of the moment,
just then I girl asks me “what am I doing?”
we walk and she takes me someplace as sparks shoot from
her ass while she lies to me, what a performance!
4 am and I am at a 7-11 buying milk as a vast array of people lie
sleeping in old brick apartments. I hear a scream,
“Don’t call the cops!” I trudge home behind a black cat and let
myself in. Lying down I feel the rhythm of the night and wait
for the sleep fairies to close the gate of my mind.
Evening Street Lights
Walking along the busy sidewalks of the life soaked day
Autumn winds catches my collar and thumps my thoughts
My eyes go up to the third floor window and no lights shine
Loneliness shakes me
I walk all this way and she is not home- Darker now
I shuffle around and go
To a corner bar and sit down
She wants a drink
I buy her one
Her tale of woe, God
Walk out the door
Still no light
Where is she?
Cold, I stumble
The dull yellow street lights
They mock me and tell me to go home
I go as the street lights keep watch
On the third floor window
These and many more poems and stories are in Cowboys and Witches. This and all my books at Amazon.com/John K Bucher