UNDERGROUND VOICES MAGAZINE/DAVID P. BATES


	UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY

DAVID P. BATES

DAYS OF VANITY

the strip club off post
has $2 drafts &
              bearable girls
& mostly decent music
if you aren’t there
for the music

I tell her I’m here
for the beer special
& I’ll tip her on stage
& the customary dollar
              when she makes her rounds
but I definitely don’t want to spend
$20 on a lap dance

she tells me her stage name
which of course isn’t really her name
but I’ve learned it’s impolite
              to ask otherwise
              especially if you’re trying to
be sincere

a few drafts & well shots later
& who knows what I was
              thinking about
I tell her I want to
watch her dance to
              Voices Carry
              by Til Tuesday
a single song on the main stage
& I’ll pay her that 20

she says she loves that song, baby
but the DJ doesn’t have it
              she offers a song
I’ve never heard of

so I leave & drive
              to the music store
the afternoon Texas sun
magnified through the windshield
              boiling the alcohol
to the surface of my skin
but there’s a certain feeling of
              invisibility
to driving drunk in daylight

when I get back
she’s working on
              Davenport & Wolf
who are trying to convince her
that they’re only there for the
              beer special

I give her the CD
& she gives it to the DJ
& I buy her a $6 whiskey
              while we wait
              for her next set

she says I should give her my #
says she’ll call me sometime
              she’d give me hers
              but the law
defines it as prostitution

& suddenly it’s
              too late
the illusion is exposed

when she finally dances she dances
                            to the simplest beat
until the few of us that are watching
              realize
that she doesn’t know the song
              or if she does
she doesn’t understand it
              or if she does
she doesn’t really like it enough
                            to even pretend

when it’s over–
I give her the 20
& tell her to keep the CD

I give her my telephone #
w/ the wrong prefix & I
              ask her what her
              real name is

it’s a plain enough name
to be believable
but I still don’t
              believe her

even the plainness is ruined

even the plainness
              is a conceit now

David p Bates is the publisher of the deadline-delinquent INTERIOR NOISE PRESS, and editor of the irritatingly-irregular MY FAVORITE BULLET. He would like to say his poems have been rejected by such illustrious mags as Ploughshares, Paris Review, Poetry.com-- but he never bothered to submit. He currently resides in Austin, TX.