john zedolik
RECREATIONAL USES
(Tuesday, 5:07 p.m.)—A Customer’s Private Appraisal—
There are three things wrong with this place—
The Pasta Palace.
First: there ain’t no pasta. I only see
bags of chips and pretzels behind the bar—
and not even any pickled eggs.
Second: it certainly ain’t no ‘Palace.’
the cracked vinyl on the stools might even
classify it as a dive.
Third: the sign out there’s a big lit-up
jack of clubs. I don’t see no joker-poker
machines hiding in the corner.
But that’s okay; I don’t need any linguini
or luxury or luck but I would like to be sitting
in a joint that’s as advertised—and what if
I were one of those people who would just
walk out when they found the contents didn’t
match the cover? For the owner’s sake,
he should update his sign to reflect
the downgrade, depict the dump—might lose
a little at first—but the good word will spread:
what you see is what you get—truth’s gotta be worth
something—like a Saturday night crowd
when it’s only Tuesday afternoon. *
*(That will continue and continue until it uses up its every minute and second.)
(5:58 p.m., 2.5 miles northwest of said “Palace”)—Boy 17, Girl 16—
1. Minimal Impression
They screwed without ceremony
back in the woods atop a broad rock
the kids called the turtle
no issue ensued beyond the sightless
sweat from her buttocks pressed
upon the sandstone
the lichens unaware of the moisture’s
source that nourished them in exchange
for the minutes’ press and rhythm
soon gone as he and she rumpled
their clothes back on to their odors
and clumsy limbs in silence
to match the near low moss,
eternally humped
2. Romance Pressure
That was romantic, wasn’t it—
back in the woods—like we were eloping,
and when he was on top of me he
really felt heavy, but that’s just part of it,
right? And it was just him in me, no condom,
so of course if there’s a baby he’ll be there
just like he was on that big flat rock with me.
He’s my rock, and boy, my butt was red for a week,
though it was worth it. We’ll do it again, I know,
and be together when we come out of the woods,
hand-in-hand this time, and I won’t mind any scrape at all.
3. Hard Rock
She thinks we’re going back
to that rock again, but it’s over—
if it ever began—as if a fuck
in the woods made us an item.
I was more interested in the puffer
mushrooms I stepped on ’cause
all these spore—like gray-green
smoke poured out of those cracked
shells—and she was wondering
what was so amazing about that,
so how interesting could she be?—
beyond her body—which was nice
but not enough to get me back there
with her, even with a new crop
of mushrooms bound to be puffing
that smoke one often doesn’t see.*
*(Especially when afternoon finally does shift to evening, and we, already on the passing,
become closer to blind.)
(7:09 p.m., said “Palace”)—Donny the Bartender/Proprietor—
“What are you doin’ with that crossbow
in here?
State game lands are ten miles down
on 437—and what the hell’s in season
now, anyway? It’s still September.
You probably couldn’t hit a bear
anyway—then he’d eat you. Shit out
the arrow or whatever you call it.
If you got lucky enough to hit it
at all. Why don’t you just go fishing?
*
Here, gimme it. I don’t know why I’m
doing this. I hope the staties don’t notice
this when they come off the interstate
for a beer. I’ll tell Jeanie so she knows
about it. Don’t want to give her any
surprises while she’s tending bar.”
*
I hope he doesn’t hurt himself—or anyone else.
Maybe I’ll take this contraption out for a test drive.
It’s gotta be a season for rabbits, squirrel, something.
He should consider this like rent. Lucky he found
a guy like me. There ain’t many of us nice guys left.
(9:23 p.m., said “Palace”)—Donny’s Thoughts about Another Customer—
That guy’s got two spent shot glasses
in front of him. Maybe he can pick
them up and put them on his eyes,
give him 20/20 vision, maybe turn
them toward himself and even x-ray
in, where I’m sure the drinks stack up,
and he can count: one, two, three,
and four—or he can just ask me since I
poured them all for him—before he pours
himself on the floor (which way is up)?
after five six seven and eight so certainly
blind, beyond the power of that thick glass
(10:06 p.m., said “Palace”)—Two Additional Patrons—
It’s okay shooting darts on a Tuesday night
drinking cheap beer from a forty-ounce bottle illegally—
no paper bag even, but who the hell’s gonna check
here anyway? It’s not like we’re in New York
City or somewhere big, right? Let’s face it:
this bar is in the middle of nowhere—
and who cares if a bunch of guys are shooting
darts once a week, having a little good time
after work and filling up some dead hours.
“Hey, you’re up—shoot your two points and sit down!”
“Alright”
First dart—second dart—third dart: three points!
“Hey wise-ass—look at that!”
“Wow—a three—that won’t happen again for six months!”
“Like hell it won’t”
Going back to the bottle is the concern now, ’cause
that guy’s beliefs are no concern of mine. I’m on a role.
Now, if I could just get out of my parents’ house and find
a decent job, that’d be even better than shooting a three—
or even a white knight—a nine—and maybe a free shot
from Donny the bartender, who’d think that a rare
event, even on dart-league nights with experienced throwers,
their nerves calmed by cheap liquor of choice or habit,
where a four or five—not bad—was the usual occurrence
or even the best of the night.
(10:19 p.m., said “Palace,” said back room)—Loser’s Thoughts—
Knock that guy down:
He just beat me at pool
at darts
at bar-shuffleboard
Somebody has to take out that asshole;
He got three beers off of me
And’s gonna take more from the next guy.
He don’t need any more.
Probably just gonna get drunk and happy,
start throwing his money around and saying
he’s the champion—and maybe I’ll get a beer
out of it or even a shot, so maybe that prick
can stay.
I’ll just nurse this beer and maybe
another and see what happens. It might be
something good. And I can go home
loaded and happy.*
*(which one should be when moving from one day to the next, as that last will have vanished
utterly with no chance of return.)
(Saturday following, 10:02 a.m., 5.2 miles southwest of said “Palace,”)—Matt & Scotty—
“Scotty, it’s just ten, and the wedding
isn’t until four, so lay off the Yukon Jack
or you’re liable to mistake the minister
for a priest and try to bum a light off of him
and piss in the flower pot under the carport
at the hotel, the stream in full view
of the debarking guests then drag down a maid of honor
in your leaden stupor and two hundred pounds
and be hauled off to pass out in a rented room
upstairs, upon awakening to return to the dance
floor, lose five-hundred bucks, lacerate your
palm on a complimentary champagne flute
and bleed all over the upholstery in a charitable
friend’s truck
make it home alright
So go on, Scotty, drink up Saturday brunch;
you’ll live to tell the tale or whatever shards
and splinters have embedded themselves
in your grasp.”
(4:18 p.m., said “Palace”)—The Friend of a Married Man—
I don’t think the creek out
back of this tavern is deep
enough to drown the one you
just tied on while the sun still
melted over your sweating and
swollen yet mound of medium-
height flesh, so you might as well
just sit under this tree while
shadows suffuse the grass
as if someone spilled a bottle
of ink onto thirsty paper but
couldn’t find the tipped source,
and your channels drain the liquor
and replace it with straight cranberry
juice in a safe plastic cup whose ice,
you hope, will cool you through
the evening and rub off on your wife
waiting right now steaming and strained
among hot, dark walls
(7:44 p.m., Summit Inn—3.1 miles north of said “Palace”)—The Friend, Still Standing—
That tall guy with the reddish beard thinks
he’s going to get us younger guys
to join this bar’s softball team by giving
us free shots of bourbon. Well,
thanks for the free booze, mister,
but we’ve got our own night planned
down off this mountain where
we’ll have the privilege of buying
our own drinks and driving back up
here if the cops don’t get us or we
crash since we’re already buzzed
due to the consideration of the man
who wants us in tip-top condition
to bring home the slo-pitch league
championship next summer, the
good Lord and the good road willing.*
*(Who wants to take bets?)
Or at least offer a Prayer if you would like:
Oramus. Kyrie Elieson—pro omnibus.
John Zedolik is an adjunct English professor at Chatham University and Duquesne University in Pittsburgh, and has published poems in such journals as Abbey, The Bangalore Review (IND), Commonweal, FreeXpresSion (AUS), Orbis (UK), Paperplates (CAN), Poetry Salzburg Review (AUT), Third Wednesday, Transom, and in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. His full length collections include Salient Points and Sharp Angles (WordTech Editions), When the Spirit Moves Me (Wipf & Stock), Mother Mourning (Wipf & Stock), and The Ramifications (Wipf & Stock). He recently published his fifth collection, entitled Lovers’ Progress (Wipf & Stock).