welcome to paul’s tavern where wanting
our collective demise to coincide
and collide anchored to the end of the world at large
and meet expectations
of evolving and growing and becoming more of ourselves,
while everything and everyone outside remains static
and unchanged and
standing in lukewarm urine before the communal trough
where someone likely just committed at least one cardinal sin
and bullshit stories no one asked to hear and
here we are like rockstars breaching the stage
before sixty thousand strong
or maybe a motley muddy boots collective
drinking away daily aches and blues
welcomed by barkeep chuck
red hair, red flannel over white t
crossword puzzle always in hand
ready to trade a beer for a dollar or two
always adding a buck for chuck
nursing away the day in a stupored haze alongside patrons
welcome to life introductions at twenty one,
three days removed
introducing a series of firsts -
legally purchased beers with legitimate ids
& slow dances with blurry bar as background & seductive dances
leading to unsolicited amateur lap dances by
promiscuous cougars on the prowl
serenaded by grunge rock -
pure wholesome alcohol induced romance
fumbling & falling under dimly lit spells
and gyrating hips &
boldly asking if she needs a ride somewhere,
knowing neither could drive and despite
disparate dispositions, united by not having
somewhere to go and so nowhere to go but with her tongue
down the throat saturating both mouths
with well vodka and cotton blend ultra light cigarettes
leaning forward feigning disinterest
when she’d lost interest and moved on to chase a new jawn
zipper pressing sharp against a lifetime achievement erection
while enduring relentless witticisms from table mates
then stumbling forward into the concrete graffitied bathroom
piss trough swaying, but bound by faith to hit the four foot target
when Father Time arrived in an army surplus jacket
saying hey shot boy, i got something to put hair on your chest -
spoiler it didn’t and never would -
producing a pint of 99 bananas from a ratty
torn interior chest pocket and with one of us being slightly
more sober, complying and emerging a liter of cheap beer
lighter, two free shots sloshing about the stomach
with stories to tell and excitedly filling
multiple ashtrays and napkins and scraps of paper
with the next big novel idea and bits of disjointed poems
that might go somewhere like right here,
right now, but didn’t know it then, still don’t now
and trying to spot the emergency community dollar
hidden in plain sight along the concrete crevices
surrounding the pisser backsplash and creaking
uneven floor matching the patrons
stumbling up to the laminate pulpit
offering chuck advice he didn’t care to hear but made you
feel like you belong among the revolving cast of characters -
townie lifers and people like us, always us
clearly out of place any place, but here we take solace
achieving invincibility at the zenith last aluminium tainted drops
after vanquishing seven dollars worth - everyone
feeling welcome even when the bar reached capacity
sweltering heat pushing past most breaking points
teetering on the edge of remaining on campus to chase tail,
but paul’s offered respite from the heat, cold beer in hand,
although being the last party in
meant sitting under the rickety air conditioner, ancient,
held aloft by faith and rusted metal shipping bolts
fearing for our lives every time the giant unit shook
and groaned and begged to be put down
all while witnessing our first mature fist fight
emerging from a light-hearted quip about somebody’s girl
hearing fist against flesh - never forgetting hey hey hey
take it outside harmonizing throughout the room
as we elbowed sun-kissed men away from our table
resuming made up point for beer games involving
trivia and song identification
or resolving philosophical problems
and points for id’ing the rare metallica or skynyrd b-side
or an extra point for cribbing and quoting
rolling stone magazine articles to add depth
the well fed jukebox serving classic rock favorites
and on occasional idle tuesdays or wednesdays
some sad sack of blue collar honky tonk
solo occupied a four top, drinking full flavor bud
bottles, playing a laundry day’s worth of sappy
country crooning so we knew to steer clear
letting him marinate in heartache while feeling
victorious - two handfuls of longnecks for the table -
only short a ten spot with chuck tax.
they being they so they say it’s about the journey,
truth in layers beyond the destination, but most folks
don’t make it and console themselves in being losers,
second rate excuses, and commiserating at a home
away from home at paul’s and feeling warm
like flickering fluorescents and stale cigarettes
and tequila shot residue at the bottom
of the shot glass when the wallet tap dries and
last minute gas station christmas gifts - scratchers
and chocolate covered cherry cordials - hastily
wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper
less chuck’s crosswords.
paul’s welcomed a dapper bunch of misfit boys -
names and faces evolving
waxing and waning with life circumstances.
welcomed as an ode to a bygone era
eventually succumbing to corporate greed
and replaced with a dollar general
and a namesake never known.
Steve Maitlen resides in the countryside of Huntingburg, Indiana and is an indie poet and photographer who holds a BA in Political Science and Philosophy from the University of Evansville (2004) and a BS in English Literature from Indiana University - Bloomington (2005). To date, his poetry has appeared in Alien Buddha Press, Blood+Honey, The Literary Underground, Mad Swirl (including recognition in the 2025 Best of Mad Swirl Anthology), and Pure Sleeze Press; his photography has appeared in Tickets to Midnight Vol. 4 (Pure Sleeze Press). He has regularly performed in Evansville, Indiana at Poetry Speaks (Indiana’s longest running and most prestigious open mic series), Writers Guild of Bloomington (IN) Spoken Word Sunday open mic series, Tell City Regional Arts third Thursday open mic, featured at Dirt Boys in Scottsburg, IN, and has shared his work with high school senior writing classes in southern Indiana. He is a member of the Tell City Regional Arts and serves as Treasurer on the Executive Board. His first chapbook, don’t lap the fat kid (Pure Sleeze Press), will be released in autumn 2026.
