Doug Roy, Moon, Cut Paper
Hole in the Wall
In a pitch saloon bathroom,
a Kinkade above the toilet
helps me aim.
I shake off, shoot out
first knock, and find
the bottom of a fist,
where paper curls
under light’s weight
and itches my hip to the beat
of Highway to Hell:
a cavern if you karaoke
like the ninety year old
regular, his mouth
as wide as want,
what waits for him
reaching in to make room
for a room in a day
with a lovers hand,
a cold sill for people-watching,
and a warm one for after
they enter, fix the fireplace,
and fill all the holes
in the walls with sound.
______________
Liv Campbell
Review by Ben Sloan
The adjective “pitch” in the opening line could imply the “saloon bathroom” is very dark, pitch dark (resembling the thick, black, tar-like substance used for waterproofing or paving?), or that it is tilting (are we drunk?)–or it could have to do with the sound of music (a “high pitched” voice in the rock anthem “Highway to Hell” mentioned later?)–or maybe all of the above. The word implies part of the reason we might want to be here is the bouncing back-and-forthness associated with such a place.
Depicted here, of course, is a dive bar with all its appropriately unexpected incongruities–suggested in this case by, in the prevailing cavern-like environment, a reproduction of a typically fantasy-based, nostalgic, colorful reproduction of a painting by Thomas Kinkade “above the toilet.”
For the denizens attracted to such a place (people like me!), one thing that makes it so attractive is its ultimate prevailing warmth. It is a hole in the wall with all its holes filled by music, as the poem attests, and, at the same time, a lover’s hand extended to (in this case) a “ninety-year-old regular” who not only feels right at home in the setting but is also, for the rest of us, a fixture and appealing aspect of the setting.