I used to go dancing at the Painted Lady
I used to go dancing in the afternoon lazily drinking youth and afraid of nothing but afraid of nothing except missing cheap oysters
When the beer I tasted really mattered and how I tasted the beer I tasted really mattered
When it mattered that the appetizer pair with its aperitif
And because I didn’t care I didn’t really care — when did I care enough?
Contre elle et lui, Zephyrus donnerai sa pluie
You see I didn’t care that I cared that the coffee I drank seemed to matter
Didn’t I care that it seemed to matter?
I cared that a sourdough round was made from scratch
And was it ever enough?
What is enough kneeling before the condo metropolis; before artisanal pickles; before the ketamine snorted off iPhone cases
Le vent d’ouest furieux est le dieu du ciel vindicatif
Is it enough for salvation to think in syllables gazing at graffiti or the bar fights bloodying my beer?
There is no blood in a drool of leaves speckling early winter’s pavement while wheels rhythmic skip hums to the screech of streetcar tracks
And then I didn’t care that I didn’t care enough about avoir or être because I didn’t stare long enough with enough longing for her stare
Enough along her arms, pale and bared, but nothing I really want as much as her stare
Le vent d’ouest répondra-t-il à la prière d’un buveur?
Still I want the snow that’s blue not white in the shadows cast by sun-light
And I want the snow beneath my shoes spreading the web & vein of dead leaves across slushy grass while my snow-blind eyes see an aura: vermillion; fuchsia; lilac
Now I want the wind in my hair
Now I know I want to declaim: “Zephyrus strokes my hair” and I want to know that I want the west wind in endless escape
But I don’t want blood in my beer
Sean O’Connell is a 30-year old resident of Tkaronto. He lives with schizoaffective disorder. His poetry and nonfiction work have previously appeared in Plenitude Magazine and the Queen’s Quarterly.
