The Butterfly Bar

Last Call Evermore

2008-11-19T00:39:00.002-05:00

Hope
in a bottle...

Love
on the run...

Life
with the best foot forward,

one
and
two
and
three
and one...

Here's to love...

May it last forever
or at least
until last call...

I Love This Bar (The Beerhall Epic, Part 2) Eric Bachman and Singleton

2008-01-22T07:12:00.000-05:00

This moment
This Margarita
This Tia Maria
spin me on the floor
is everything
and more
wrapped up
in cellophane,
zip lock
bags
to go.....

Too many people,
too many fraidy cats,
too many fools,
worried about the two step
the swing me up and
swing me low,
"dont drop me on the floor",
won't know this moment
like we know it,
teetering on the edge,
barefoot toes on the drumroll,
making boombox
outa nothin'.....

And the show goes on.....

because this is the day,
the time of our lives,
our chariot swings low
swings so very sweet
and heavy with
the swamp beat
rhythm and blues,
sticky with sweat
and high on the
drug of living each moment
to meet and make love
to the next one to come...

This is the time
this is the place
and we are inheritors
of the long night ahead

"I won't let you fall"

And I never will--

But somethings just happen
and we can never control
the whys or the hows

Some people fall forever
through the blue sky of love
and the hazy clouds of doubt

And sometimes we land
in the arms of the one
we dreamed would catch us

Today is that day--
a brand new day
never before known

name it
and it's yours

name it
and let's take our time
coming home for the night.

I Love This Bar (The Beerhall Epic, Part 1) Eric Bachman and Singleton

2008-01-07T21:35:00.000-05:00

I pushed my quarters
over the edge...

Plunked them
onto
the bartender's side
smiled
and chugged the last
hoo-rah,
twirled
and shimmied off the seat,
another day
another night
another song on the juke box played for a dime,
I almost called it a Tuesday
and walked out the door....

But it was a new day
and
only three quarters fell in the well,
the other one
modgepodged itself
to my fingertips
and wouldn't let go
not even to smoke....
so I giggled
and wiggled
and the jukebox had hiccups
and caught on fire....

it smoked
fizzed
sizzled
and stirred our careworn bodies
into a fast-forward flying tango
a rewind reality check
a pause and let's go
gimme three steps kind of
momentum
coursing across the floor
like a hot spring on an icy
mountain top

and we weren't the only ones
moving
shaking
rubber band twanging
and not once faking...

The best is yet to come
the worst is yet to come

We can take it in stride
or in full-flight regalia

This day is one of many
and all it's own color
it's own flavor

There's only one like it
and that's right now
this second
this moment

and to think we only know it
by the one name we can think of

Today

Midnight Blues, Eric Bachman and Singleton, 2007

2007-12-31T13:05:00.000-05:00

Midnight~
the love child of day and night
the great yes~no~maybe,
imploring us:

"Don't look back"

Midnight~
Born in the arcane math
of 24 turned back to zero,
all clean slates filled
with pink love marks,
one more X traced on
skin by waiting hands
we know in the dark.

Midnight~
patron hour
of witches
tyrants
gypsies
and jokers
drawing the line in black~magic
marker,
stallion of seduction and strength
running time's marathon
the mother of all fevers
the endless
clandestine
taboo.

Midnight~
as the old fire light fades,
a brand new gift of 365
sunsets and rises~
the sacred mysteries
the soft~lipped silent passing
caress of our greatest
enemy
turned
lover.

Midnight~
fizzing and
running over
spilling enchantments
like the gifts of a wise Magi
from the mystic east,

Midnight~
"This is the one and only now,
the endless this moment,
ecstasy reborn between
yesterday and tomorrow"

As Midnight falls upon us,
making everything old
new,
everything beloved
to begin yet again...
glasses filled with
Midnight love on the rocks
a Second Chance Martini...
spilling over
in hopes that no acquaintance will
ever
be forgotten,
and all sins began in such sweet
earnest
likewise...

Pixie Hat, Eric Bachman and Singleton, 2007

2007-12-28T23:17:00.000-05:00

Sweeping out the front door
unshowered,
yesterday dressed,
on a faerie's
daylight
twighunt...

Barefooted
and sunned.

I'm off to gather
trinkets,
rock,
stones,
powdered gold--
to weave a
pixie hat...

* * *

She sweeps
out the front door--

to gather
her magic,
and see what
the tide brings...

An angel
on her shoulder.

Her heart
on greensleeves.

A devil
smiles in the details.

Waiting to see
how her pixie hat turns out.

Waiting for the moment
when all will be said,
and yet there's still
a little bit left undone.

The Crisscrossed Circle, Eric Bachman, Singleton and Maithri, 2007

2007-12-24T08:54:00.000-05:00

Peace
It reads the same
inside out and backwards
in the mirror
in the sunlight
in the aftermath of falling stars,
in my soul
where it always was,
and
always
will be.

The curve of love,
the beginning,
the middle,
the neverending
of a circle...

And the light
shines
on a day
that even God
said
was a good one...

May we all be blessed....

Tightwire, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

2007-12-12T19:43:00.000-05:00

I tiptoe
on the highwire....
no net,
no stopping now,
and fall....

ten thousand stories,
endings,
punchlines not yet told
and land in the net,
a butterfly jolted,
captured,
kicking barefooted on the wild trapeeze....

And you're there,
on the wire,
halfway to my dungeon in the sky,
bloodless
and daring the ground...
"join us,
break us,
knock us the hell out of here"...

and we laugh
because our eyes never leave
the beautiful,broken,
colored, cracked
space
of our very own touch,
suspended in nowhere,
here,
half way to there....

I step
you step,
You reach
I reach,
I fall
You fall,
And the crowd wooshes and roars,
Catastrophe is what they paid for
with ooooohs and ahhhhhhs and
two nickel tickets.....

and we make it every time....

In This Way of Love

2007-12-06T21:56:00.000-05:00

Eric Bachman and Singleton, 2007

Butterfly of gold,
San Marina's own

She's so very free...

Always has been,
Always will be.

Wings stretched--
resting in a fold

she'll never fly
alone...

and will always
float with me.

Does she remember the dream...
the discovery that she made?
mermaids and
butterflies
are one and all the
same....
one for the sky
one for the sea

one in a heart's
midnight blue dream

"In this way of love is the balance kept"

they say that
butterflies only
live for a day
or the moment
and I can't
believe this is true
and mermaids
live forever
in the shadows
and the deep--
I can't believe this is true
so I'm sure they take turns
trading underwater dunes
for summer wind

"in this way of love is the balance kept"

She tells stories.....

2007-11-28T23:02:00.000-05:00

ERIC BACHMAN and SINGLETON 2007

Her face was wet,
chilled, but not cold
and I succumbed...
fell
into her soul,
her innermost heat,
a fire that even
the rains of November
couldn't completely
extinguish.

Did I ever tell you
I was in love with snow?
dimestore flocking
quilt batting
crystaline
fortune telling
flakes?
And the cold shock
hot
of drowning
in
a bathtub full
a hillside high
a ditch on the side of the road
of white
forever tumbling from overstuffed
"I can't believe I ate this much!"
"Gotta unbuckle my five oh one"
clouds?

Her face was wet
so was mine
her hair
my hair
her clothes
my clothes
soaked
clinging
and cold
in the November air
and she prattled
on
cheeks five o'clock pink,
fishtelling the story I knew by heart

and how I never forgave
the skies
for teasing me
with plump white wine
goosefeathers falling
unexpected,
never recorded before,
cant be happening!,
and then
wrecking my dream
in the morning?

her face was wet
and so was mine,
and we laughed
at everything:
rain
clouds
wind
tears
shivers
smiles
and brown eyes;
the soul of the earth
with come hither to lines....

it was my only one night stand.....

her face was wet
and so was mine
and in the cold
November nightness
we
played snow angels on the hill
and laughed at
the stories
behind us...

The Little Things

2007-11-21T21:36:00.000-05:00

Little dead bird
cold
sleeping
at my feet.

Wings
ragged
tattered
torn.

I touch her
barely
with one toe

and die inside
a little more.

The Waiting Game--Eric Bachman and Singleton, '07

2007-11-18T19:45:00.000-05:00

You’ve got the five o’clock blues
and a ten spot in your pocket--
There's no place like home
after a little hell on Monday.
(no matter where home is)

Meatloaf and cold potatoes,
callin’ your name out loud,
the paycheck's spent and
the fridgadair’s humming;
Warm
And hollow
And empty.

Happy hour is three days off
Says the sign, the schedule
the Monday morning cue card.

The parking lot's all lit up,
the double doors flap
wide open,
closed
and open again...

and that’s really all you need....

Five o'clock and an open invite;
all we're waiting on is you.

Pretty Little Ending--Eric Bachman and Singleton, '07

2007-11-12T19:05:00.000-05:00

A pretty little ending,
all wrapped up tight;
sugar-coated candies
in a movie theatre box.

The credits roll by--
The End spelled out
in unmistakable font,
everyone's going home.

Confetti dust and rays
of a lost sun flickering,
floating in bright chaos,
their shadows play tag
on a dirty silver screen--
And suddenly I remember...

It wasn't all that great;
I just wanted it to be.

Eyes that Sing, Eric Bachman 2007

2007-11-06T11:11:00.000-05:00

I may not see you there
looking through the leaves,
but your soul sings a song
that ripples true and rings
across the body of time
a piano played by heart
a hundred notes and lines.

Every verse you know
was learned so long ago.
And all the songs you sing
are from a siren's dream.
Echoing the blue sky blues
autumnal virgin forest scene
across the body of time.

Your song gives you away
behind the thickest leaves.

Your eyes give you away
the body of time, a dream.

Your heart may be alone--
I listen for it's wild call.

Your eyes they sing
a song of midnight lights,

Dancing through the distance
the burnt gold leaves of fall.

On The Floor, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

2007-11-04T10:04:00.000-05:00

Watching the bold clock face
ticking down the brick wall,
tocking sepia lyrics
talking--unraveling

spilling

spelling

yesterday

and maybe

tonight.

Misfit makeshift couples--
Strangers two hours before
Three beers later
(who's counting?)
Folding like pages into
gray night moths
enveloped against, into, onto
each other by moonshine…
Desperate
for a Friday night love story.
(“Hey, what's your name, again?”)

But not us,
we laughed at the clock….
pick pocketing
Our last lines

We clinked! to the last call
and all that could’ve been
if we had risen to the occasion…..

To one last spin
one last dance
one last drink
the last of many tonight

And tomorrow,
we'll do it all one more time...
one more spin
one more sigil scribbled
on the back door stairwell

Everything is perfect
everything will burn
every night without end
when you're the Silver moths
in the black cantina...

Behind The Powder Room Door, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

2007-11-02T05:40:00.000-04:00

All lined up like perfect flowers
with their pink painted faces
moulin rouge cheeks,
little hens
in the ladies room
cackling
spitting
hissing
smiling
through antique teeth,
veneered words
splinter off their tongues...

"So nice to see you"...

Even fairy tales
have cardboard creeps
climbing through the pages,

And she believes in fairy tales,
so she dusts them off daily
with feather words and gloss,
billowing sweet cotton candy,
pink on their blue cheeks

They prattle as she prances
out the door...

"Isn't she a doll?"...

...

Sometimes,
you have to fix the endings.

Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

2007-10-29T16:20:00.000-04:00

She curtsies and beckons
to the highway rollers,
the evening strollers,
the "I just left my wife
this morning"ers.

With her eyes wide open,
blinking
winking
lying.....
they believe....
do they ever believe,
her eyes, burning
reflecting their desire...

Everything around her
drowning in the want
to bathe in her love.

A tear like a diamond--
rough and in perfect season and tune;
falling like a stone from above.

She told them a dime
a beer
a skate
a stroll
or stone-skip throw
is all it will take
to win a true heart.

Told them with piercing eyes
to step right up if they think
they have what it takes,
a quarter for the jukebox...
your dime,
my time--
and to believe that
24 hours is enough...

For anything.

Because she told them so....

Told them how to win a night
at the Paradise South.

Told them almost everything
keeping dreams for herself,
a shadow walking with her
the only friend who knows.

Forever is just a dream,
enchantment of the night--
her heart's true name
scribbled on a timeless picture
in her gilded locket for eyes only.

She bows with royal flourish,
takes the floor, fading into smoke;
lights high above beaming down
like a sun never shone on earth.

Nickel Drafts, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

2007-10-27T05:43:00.000-04:00

Backs to the band
we drifted down--
drafted, up--
(clouds have nothing on us)

Penned a paperback book
on Budwieser napkins
stacked
aces high,
a house of cards
between us.

"Shhhhhh.... "

"No talking"

"Okay"

Words penciled
between strangers
leg to leg
shoulder to shoulder
tall tales, short stories
spun right there
at the bar.

I only heard
your voice
once
in a smile,
as we ran
across the street
let them fly

White butterflies
wooshed by traffic,
ghosts
with bottle ring
halos.

This word
and that word
whistling
waves
free
falling

the story out of order

And that's the way it's supposed to be...

The Show, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

2007-10-26T09:58:00.000-04:00

"Like water fits a mermaid"

A taffeta gown
in phospherescent teal
roaring
slurping
climbing
dancing on it's own
sequined
and beaded
zippered
and fated
by the seamless seamtress
of the sea.

From the watchtower
she's dripping in
frothy hemlines
moving victorian lace
sea foam splash
smile sigh
eight miles high
and deep.

The sun pulls the curtains
endless encore
the lights go on and off
and she's swathed in tie-dyed
skin
and butterfly wings
naked
but for her soul
a crystaline buoy
tethered to the shore--

The show must go on...

Red Glow of Pardise South, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

2007-10-24T22:34:00.000-04:00

Neon lights burning:
Red hot and electric
they never close down
fall down, burn out
they never do lie
except to the city;
red glare, she cries.

The neon lights click
on and on, clinking
even with the dark
thinking, tinking
on abandoned streets
of the long after hour
craze and shuffle home

Red lights glaring like
moonlight and bloodstone
in the see-through rays
of the old rising sun,
burning her face bronze
her lunch-time squint;

(Don't frown--
you'll get wrinkles)

The neon lights buzz
on through the night.

The neon lights lie
to the city so wide
as the jukebox dies
it lies in plain sight.

An Every-Night Cinderella, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

2007-10-23T21:33:00.000-04:00

I'm not alone...

As long as the wind
will talk to me,
I hear your voice

I'm listening...

The wind always
has a story to tell....

She whispers
in the night,
whipporwhills
to the moon,
frolicks in the sun

But she listens,
as she gales,
tumbling litter
winter leaves
baby butterflies
waves
crashing

I hear the sounds
of her bright voice
echo; alive

Sometimes I hear her
moan--gasp--cry
sometimes
laugh--lilt--whisper

In the night,
there are secrets
everywhere
and she knows
all of them.

But if one knows
to listen well
to her breathy voice
and feel her caress
and her soft kisses
on their face
nothing
will remain hidden

Nothing
will stop her
from becoming one,
from becoming a kite
of stardust and light;
blue and purple
and red and white
flying from the palm
of her invisible hand

And then she'll do
what the wind
always does,
she'll unravel
the kite string
one loop
one inch
one beer
one line
at a time
and set it free
a new constellation

One more brand new
Cinderella
dancing
in her midnight sky.

Atomic Moon, Singleton 2007

2007-10-22T20:58:00.000-04:00

Keys on the floorboard,
fingers digging past
lost cigarette butts,
McDonald's reciepts,
dashboard buttons fallen
in the dark
to find them,
Two keys to the car,
one to the house,
one to the Storage Shed where
memories are buried for ninety-nine
dollars a month,
one to the post office box
three cities ago,
just to crank the damned engine
in the cold and
barrel out,
blonde hippie chic
under the
Steven Kingish,
Halloweenish,
Jack-o-lantern
laughing moon....

And drive here.
Where pink ladies paid $7.95 an hour
drape her in Este Lauder perfumes
and dripping vintage beads,
bathe her in bargain basement
dress-me-ups.....

She slides through the
swinging doors,
keys clanging
on the bars of
the old pocketbook
bouncing off her hip,
sashaying
swinging
singing
into the blackened parking lot....

Cinderella....

Open, Singleton 2007

2007-10-19T19:03:00.000-04:00

Three pairs of blues
inside out and wadded
crumpled at the bedfloor
Eight left shoes
different heights
for different faces
heaped in the corner
and I'm ready to go...
dressed in tried and trues
and that damned
concrete block
I'm growing quite
accustomed to.

The barstool
six from the right
leans
on wooden knees
a black plethera
valentine
that whispers
"be mine...
when you're
breathless"
when you've had
your fill
of them.....

And I'm off....
Fridays are for dancin'.....

Mocha Morning, Singleton 2007

2007-10-18T20:26:00.001-04:00

Last call forgot us
they couldn't find
our hands raised
for roll call
or find our shadows
on the floor
I was in the ladie's room
talking to my other smile
and you were bangin'
on the cigarette machine
playing pachinko with
our last dimes for
a pack of anything
pall malls
bubblegum rings
or fortunes....
anything that would
happily land at your feet

And so we missed it,
another round
downtown at the cornerbar
and in the wee hours,
the free hours
we took the party home
to dance in the kitchen
and drink Michelobs left
lying on their sides in the
vegetable bin,
but
we did that the night before....
and there was only bologna there
and some cheese
forgotten

So I brewed coffee and
when you went to fetch the cream
you find the henna
in the karmic red tubes
chilled and ready

We pretended it came in every color
blue
and
the color of my hair on top
and painted mocha colored cobwebs
up and down our calves
and laughed....

I read the directions this
morning.....
sipping cold black coffee....
and crossing my legs,

It says in perfect foreign script.....
"does not wash off with soap and water"

The Perfect Corner, Eric Bachman 2007

2007-10-17T23:22:00.000-04:00

The perfect corner bar,
a perfect place to sit back
to kick our feet up
and loose the shoes,
listening to voodoo sing
it's charms and invocations
from an electric guitar amp.

The perfect circle--
hands held with strangers
as the bright lights dim,
electric freedom singing
while everyone watches
the stage for her next trick
her next dance, next song.

Perfect circle, perfect corner
perfect burnished wood
perfect cigarrette burns
perfect drinks, perfect laughs
everything was like that;
real and a little impossible,
only a dream--in your face.

Last call is light years
into the future's haze.

Open the door and look out
at the new-born universe.

In the windows by the corner
an open sign glows--perfect.

Non-stop neon lights burn.
and the sunrise only means
it's a new morning.

Will work for beer, Singleton 2007

2007-10-17T22:53:00.000-04:00

He spins stories on the sidewalk
and the five o'clockers gather round
hushed from their rush and tickertapes
by his words,
whispered

they linger and loiter and loot
his cache
parading in
trenchcoats
and pantyhouse
and breaktimes
listening
to their lives
in make believe
wannabee's,
and verytales
whispered

and she draws a circle in pastels
around his workaholic words
and the shady people grazing him
but noone notices
the colors
that
she's painting

just the barefeet
dancing through
the stories
leaving chalky footprints
on the sidewalk
and the way
she collects
his dimes

Little Black Book, Eric Bachman 2007

2007-10-17T22:23:00.000-04:00

Pages blur
faces turn
some time
no money.

Everything
changes
on a dime.

Air crackles with life-lightning
smokey air conditioned breeze,
out of the dark we are all born.

Numbers
and pages
with stars:
one or two
three, four
and five.

Few could hold your candle,
none could match your style--
ten, eleven, twenty-four-seven.

A page in
the book
torn out
flying on
oceania's
cool breeze.

Butterflys drink from the flowers,
sometimes, shot glasses, bottles;
always to their light heart's content.

One more page torn from the book
forever are the stars there yours
shining like rain in a city street lamp

Light
casting shadows
on this
little black book
of mine.

Empty Bar, Singleton 2007

2007-10-17T19:34:00.000-04:00

Windows
spraypainted black
grafittied
by fingernails
razorblades
golden hair
cobwebs
spider veined by the sun
the black egg
cracking

Jukebox humming
clanging banging
ghosts of vinyls
flipping
but nothings
there
digital sounds
masters recreated
hanging
it's not the same

And I spin on the black
leather seat
in a circle
eyes closed
arms out
twirling
waiting to
pin the tale on the donkey
or the next drunken
fool who makes
an ass of
himself

and for you...
jeweled shot warming,
I wait for you...