How Much Drunk We’d Got

We went to Chicago.
It was a long time ago.
The first night there,
we ate tapas, smoked cigars,
and then got in the biggest fight ever,
to that point.

I didn’t leave her downtown
like she wanted,
though there wasn’t any talking
driving back to where we slept
in separate beds.

She told me the next day she wanted to stay over
and make it up to me,
so we got a room in a gay hotel
and listened to blues down the street in a bar.

She got drunk on shots, disappeared for thirty minutes,
and passed out on the bathroom floor.

I felt no pain either, and slept
fitful and sweaty on top of the covers,
hoping she’d come out at some point
and fuck my brains out
like back in the day.

The next thing I know its later
and there’s a guy in the room with a pillow in his hands
saying I’m his present for the night,
before I came up off the bed, threw him out,
and double locked the door.

When the sun woke me
and I remembered whatever I could,
I thought the whole thing was an alcoholic dream

until I saw that pillow
at the foot of the bed.

She didn’t remember anything about anything
from the first shot on
and we drove back to Iowa
with the worst hangovers we’d ever imagined,

still freaking about the fight,
how much drunk we’d got,

and me the guy with the pillow.

This Is The Time

This is the time
when the world turns bright red and yellow,
air goes cool,
and night comes early.

You can breathe again;
that stuff the plants put out
is gone,

as the sunny and hot
starts its inevitable fade

merging silent
and smooth
into the deep dark ocean
of the remembered universe.

Not Too Late This Moment Is

Its not that we don’t stand up
in our lives right here and now,

its just that we do it
with our eyes and hearts
sealed tight
against the light
of day.

We sleepwalk
stagger
lurch
from there to here
all zombielike
and cluttered
with whatever’s
in that steamer trunk
dragging itself along
behind,

and barely notice
much beyond
what didn’t happen
should have happened
might still happen
and didn’t last.

Though if you’re reading this
you already know
how not too late
this moment is.

The Vow

We all live in vow,
both to abide
by that
which is consciously chosen
and the less obvious, too,

wholly obscured
behind a veil
of suffering
and pain.

I vowed to hide
from the hard work
of waking up
to the truth of the Universe
all those years ago,

and served that end
like Marty Feldman
denying his hump
at every turn,

so that even now,
remembering who I am,
the vow must be renewed
at every turn.

The Night Before

I dumped the bike
on the run back from town
to the campground
on a red brick wet street
pulling up to a stop sign.

It was early – before midnight -
but I’d been drinking all day
and should have known better.

Someone helped me get the shiny side up again,
but I tore off before the cops arrived
and never even saw his face.

The bike was OK
and my sore shoulder got better
within a week or so.

It reminded me of a time
when the rule was
I wouldn’t drink and ride,
no matter what,

a policy that ultimately stood
in stark contrast
to what happened night after night
heading home
all wobbly and one eye closed.

That’s how I got caught,
finally,
tearing up the hill
with Lulu on the back
going 40 in a 25.

When the cop finally got me stopped,
and asked if I was drunk,
I told the truth,
which was
that I wasn’t as bad
as the night before.

The Truth That Hurts

Sometimes the truth hurts pretty bad
at least at first
before there’s the settling
that comes after stuff
gets unbalanced.

We all know this,
had it happen
a few times,
maybe more,
usually in the realization
there’s a problem
you should have seen
and didn’t.

Like realizing
you’re alone
and always will be.

Which means
this life of your’s
is your’s alone
irrevocably,

and ends
forever and ever,
the very instant
you check out.

No one wants to hear this,
of course,
having been painstakingly nurtured
at the alter of immortal souls
personal gods,
and the superstitions
of a life hereafter,

but then again,
what’s so bad
about this right here and now?

No One Wants To Know

When they found him,
blind drunk in the back seat of his car,
with dildos and poppers, and panties, and porn
spread everywhere,

all he wanted to do was plead and get sent
as fast as possible
before anyone learned the truth.

But the facts were just too juicy not to spread around,
and word went out before he sobered up
the next morning.

He got sent alright,
and for that everyone was grateful
because no one wanted
to have to hear an explanation
for what went down
day after day
for the next six months.

We all have
our backseats of secrets,
no one wants to know.

Life

When its all said and done
the thing to face up to
is whether you got a life worth living,

where there’s meaning and purpose
behind the apparent foolishness
of daily existence,

where what goes on between the ears
is less loud than that
of everything else,

where what’s done
makes it easier for everyone else
to live their lives well
as well,

and where when you put your head down
on the pillow each night,
there’s just a little less of a mess in the world
then when you started,
all those hours
earlier.

The Swimmer

I lived with a swimmer
through all four years of college.

She had thick thighs and did the butterfly
for fun.

It was wonderful for a long time
but towards the end,
she turned mean and violent,

hitting and scratching and screaming
at the slightest provocation.

One night she ripped my shirt
and started in again
about whatever I’d done or not done
or was wrong about
that time

and something snapped,
after all those months of sucking it up
and agreeing with whatever she wanted
just to keep things calm enough
not to involve law enforcement.

Though I’m still a little ashamed to admit this,
it felt good when I hit her in the stomach

twice.

She only doubled over for about two seconds,
before coming at me
with this weird animal rage
that made me think of my mother’s temper tantrums
back when I was a kid.

I moved out that weekend;
it was the saddest thing I’d ever done in my life,
to that point.

She tried to get us back together a couple of months later,
but when I said no,
and for there ever after,
that enraged look
and the sense
she was going to come after me again
with claws and fists
was all I ever got.

723

i wanted to see
what an unmediated life would be,
so I went off drugs and medicine,
not counting coffee and cigarettes

the sadness didn’t kick in right away
it lurked instead behind loved ones

so that when they let me down
it could roar in for the kill
unimpeded

so far
I haven’t died
killed anyone
or switched over
to rum or anything worse

sure is lonely
out here

Two Legged Stool

Like a two legged stool,
I couldn’t stay upright
on my own,

and so devoted a life
to facilitating solutions
to this flaw.

I sought  parental love,
then that of my friends.
Quaaludes and acid worked,
as did playing guitar in a band,
studying philosophy,
riding Harley Davidsons
and jacking off.

None of these come with a warranty or anything,
and in the end failed,
so I simply learn to live
all wobbly and teetering,

though when I didn’t fall over
right away,
the imagery
of the stool
faded a bit,

leaving me to realize
yet again
how the  subtle delusion of belief
steals my heart
far more frequently
than any person,
place,
or thing
ever saved it.

Most of the Time

We fought for years
to no good end
over stray bits
of fluff and bother
until the anger
set like concrete.

A few years later
after the smoke cleared
and the crowds dispersed,
I made a vow
to own and release
that which boiled
below the surface,

and turn a compassionate eye
towards a life
that cannot be escaped.

It works pretty good
most of the time,
but not
last night.

This isn’t solitaire,
you know.

longing

i am longing
for a quiet peaceful mind
where the things i think
no longer crowd out
the way things are
and the eyes that see
know the world that is
before sadness and wishing
thrust me out
into a night
that never ends

Pancake

I made my boy
a pancake
yesterday.

He doesn’t eat
what he doesn’t like,
and he doesn’t like
many things.

I was the same way.

But he wanted to try flapjacks;
don’t ask me why.
So I went out and bought the mix
and made one.

He ate half,
said it was good,

and even though
that may have just been
out of politeness,

it was still
the coolest thing
he’s done
in a while.

Poor Me

Today as I was tooling down the road
still kicking my own ass
with this piss poor me stuff,
a song came on that got me nostalgic

for them times,
going to the bar after work,
folks were glad I was there,
juke box playing something decent,
and me having a few rum and cokes
just to take the edge off a long day
before slipping back out
and heading home
to the warm embrace
of a beautiful lover.

That can’t happen now
and didn’t really happen then
but in bits and pieces
some of them things once were true,

though I suppose pretty much every alcoholic I know
still has that secret magical easy drinking days place
where the sweet spot’s big
and the worst that happens
is a cab ride home and a headache in the morning.

Childish Dreams

You can talk about letting go of stuff all you want,
but late at night when most people gratefully snooze away
while you still laying there hurting,
don’t be surprised when what comes flooding back
are all the wishes and wants and desires once lived by
and still secretly hoped for
there in the bed
with the blinds drawn.

Having someone to love
who loves you back
more or less even-steven,

living a nice enough life
where there’s a little fun
and not too much struggle
just to get by,

and the car runs and the bills get paid
and you’re not collapsing into the sack every night
having run out of time
with stuff still to do,
day after day,

and where what goes on in your brain
isn’t as loud and demanding
as the sound of life outside,
so that this moment
right here and now
gets its full due attention.

Letting go
isn’t so easy,
and if you’re honest enough
to admit it,
sometimes there’s no mere getting over
what was lost or never had,

as you lay there thinking
how it sure would be nice
for something sweet and easy
to come wandering
down the path,

to hold your hand
in the next leg
of the journey home

All Good Stories

I didn’t know that gnawing pain
still slithered around
down deep in these bowels.

I had no idea
at this age
I’d find desire
so strong
and loud,

as to keep me up at night
and color these waking moments
such that yet again would walk
the teenage clumsy  heart
I long ago snuffed out.

Someday I’ll be thankful
for the taste
of that glowing ache again
after all these years
and the walls they built,

though I
am not there
yet.

fallen as far

don’t got no time
for matters of the heart
where love that’s given
meets dead empty air

leaving me to wonder
how it is
you’d be willing
to have these disconnected moments

while I, on the other hand,
yet again lay awake all night
wondering why it is
I’ve fallen as far as this
for you

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The deal with love
the thing
that makes it
so fucking hard

is that it leaves
most of us believing
how
we’re
done
complete
perfected
on easy street
beautiful
wanted
needed
sexy

and
finally worthy
to see
our dreams
come true.

And without it,
pretty much
the opposite.

711

It always happens
just when you start getting a little cocky
and taking yourself for granted,
the stuff flares up
and the bucket’s kicked over
and whatever’s inside
spills all over the floor.

It happened to me
just the other day,
where habits from a way long time ago
reared their ugly little nubbin heads,

and all of a sudden
there I was
back in high school
all obsessed
because so and so
didn’t love me
like I demanded,

leaving me out in the cold
all naked and exposed
and wanting to escape
if for no other reason
then to make them goddamn voices
in my head
shut up
and leave me be.

I’m not like that anymore,
not so freaking needy
as to hinge my heart
on the whims and caprice
of someone else’s
humanity,
for better
or for worse.

Except that there’s this bucket
where old stuff gets kept,
like some karmic laundry basket
hiding back behind the coats
in the hall closet.

And if you don’t know it’s there,
the damn thing’s pretty easy
to accidentally tip over,
when you’re rummaging around
thoughtlessly.

So all I could do,
once the horror of the spill
receded in this naive mind I got,

was get out the rags and start wiping it up,
wringing the soupy crud
back into the bucket,

though this time
I paid a little attention,
seeing and smelling and tasting
the mess
before tucking it all back
into the dark recesses
for the next time
there’s an accident.