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A small historic apothecary turned bar in any small historic mall in the nation. Poetry. |
APOTHECARY CRAFT Red-dusted, uneven. Crusty-cracked, cowboy-booted/ brick. beauty— in the antiquated, enduring fatal-flaws. The unique, the unkempt, the ambiguous, ones who flaunt their puppy-loves, the lavishly rich/lavishly poor. They stroll and meander down the gallery. Many look— blinded by the apparel/boutique and cut/jeweled restaurants. Secretly spying the alluring, illustrious-vintage, curling-neon signage. Hidden away. The clumsy-timbered portal opens only for me. And those who crave the delectable— desirable. Off to the bustling-blissful world of the rococo. Freed/ of the murky-misguided. A quirky-quaint/diversified— mix. Comfort-lit tiles. In the sky. A mesmerizing mosaic of twists and turns. Enchantingly-concreted, numbed carvings, on wood. I read every— word. Watching and listening to the bumblebee-wind of patrons. And try to sequester otherworldly-earshot, buzzing. Whiskey-barrel stout in hand. And my tunnel-trip to the world of, uninhibited, tinsel-tinned land— artistry. The solvent-speckled mirrors/ wonderous show. Pharmaceutically-relieved, resplendent, reveler-regulars. Faces— walked with life. Radiant mixes and rothskeller-grub. A cacophony of cotton-coated slurred speech/ consumes. The myriad-music starts/ to sound slippery, like a Berlioz symphony without a conductor. Onemore/Onemore/Onemore— fulfilled with napkins and pen to create the sloshy-besotted ferocious scribbling. Yes, still the Apothecary— crafts. All are/ En fuego! |