I wake up, **** drunk, with a headache that quakes at my temples and somewhere towards the rim of the tail of my head, that dense pocket. It takes my brain for a spin while I’m removed.

I attempt to get myself up off the seat I fell asleep in. My grip slips on the wood grain handles. It’s imported legs rub against the wooden floors, shrieking.

I try once more.

I triumph.

I slinky over to the kitchen where I wash my face in the sink, hoping to rinse off some alcohol that has seeped through my pores.

The frigid water wakes me up, opening up my lungs at whatever time it may be, wherever I may be.

Her house sat on the edge of a hill, up there with the shot callers. She was an entrepreneur who was interested in representing me; she said she can make me the next Bukowski.

I laughed. “There will never be another Bukowski.”

Her living room laid in the house's corner, like roadkill, surrounded by three glass windows in place of walls. I saw no speakers, but Coltrane played throughout.

Fifteen minutes into my poetry, she suggested we drink, which led us to inhale several bottles of red. She would make comments about some of them, followed by reasons for unbuttoning her shirt. From my seat I watched the sun fall from the sky, dragging bright yellow with her as the Moons blanket draped.

“I love it,” she said, “We can take this around the world.”

I liked that.

I like it when people genuinely like my pieces; it fills my void of existence.

I thanked her.

We danced in celebration until we ended up on the floor, dizzy and hot. She started working her hands, creating paths on my body.
She assured me she didn’t do this often. This was new to her.

I believed her.

Her eyes confirmed it.

She got up from the floor, telling me she would wash up and for me to wait in her bedroom, the second door to the right next to the bathroom.

She hurried off.

I walked over to the enormous windows and looked out to the city; it was gorgeous, then I walked my *** out of there.

I figured she wouldn’t be able to help me because there will never be another Bukowski.

We were young and foolish, she the younger –
I the more foolish
hair falling softly from the table she would lie on
using keys to the dark-room during lunch hour
so we could “finish the yearbook”
excited by thoughts of getting caught during those encounters

The red light accentuated the perkiness of her *******, taught
filled with passion and energy.
I would lick my way past her belly button and could taste the chlorine from her recent swim practice.
her pool-noodle legs arched up, inviting me to stare at her
newly formed mound, still growing into her thighs
it was delightful.

She was beautiful.

Years on I’d come to spend more time with the woman from
cash register four – Thursdays noon till 8.
we were uncommitted to commitment thus,  
neither of us took too much, too seriously

She wore her hair shorter on a-countta’ it got so ****** hot
in that store,
        she would sometimes dehydrate – her neck glistening.
from the store and the hot flashes.

Her ******* would sway from side to side as she lay there waiting for me to undress
the evenings were rather unceremonious –
though quite memorable.  We never lacked energy.
Quite memorable.

Once golf-ball sized ******* had begun to sink into her abundant pillowy chest.
I would take forever it seemed ******* like a child
        until they obeyed the demand for attention.

Rounding her hips, I could taste the day-long sweat
smothered under that poly-nylon store smock
Later, she would toss her leg over mine, allowing me more than a glimpse
of her “womanhood” she called it.
all matted and twisted from the long afternoon
her greying ***** beginning to show her age
along the rest of her body.

She was beautiful.

The -older woman- referred to me as “well rounded” – the lady four years my senior
summer afternoons we’d spend quietly just sitting on the bed
Sometimes, with nothing to say
Most of her hair had left her head by now from the months of chemo

Gentle massage to her shoulders and upper arms somehow quelled her headaches
from time to time she would welcome me
“be gentle” she would whisper
I would

Kissing the nape of her neck to make way for her remaining breast
She’d had the other removed months ago.

I could taste the dusty sun-screen from her gardening
just above the tops of her hips
kissing my way down the pudge folds of her belly to her thigh
then what remained of her once neatly trimmed mound
now silver/grey/white
muddled and untidy if at all.

She was so beautiful.

Huh - some hero
a broken man of broken dreams
found crawling from the ditch dredged by strangers
while his own ruination, a physical half-shell
emotional snakes and ladders

Ever courageous through – always the light-hearted of the herd
not quite nerdy but an intellect (of sorts)
a man of letters
sometimes “too many notes”

Poured from the gravy boat of left-overs
the wannabe saviour swims to rescue the damsel
whom he knows will know better
she’s seen his ilk before
all shining armour, will tarnish given time
those cathedral etchings from years gone by
with the sunlight shining from his mouth
spouting poetry from centuries past
nary an original thought will develop from what’s left
of his imagination
dulled by realities of daily news

The saviour has pledged allegiance
an honour to truth both unspoken and said
a respect for taking turns
to laugh, cry or feel nothing sometimes

The damsel knows he can’t make up his mind
about much at all.  

If he can’t save his own life – how the hell will
he ever pretend to prop hers

Huh – some hero.

Some feel they are impervious;
That they alone can flout the rules
And go in crowds to crowded places,
Yelling epithets at any who complain.
How foolish is it possible for them to be -
Once they pick it up, they take it to their aged
Mother who doesn’t wash her hands so well. Soon
Everybody in the house is sick - and one will die. For what?
                                  ljm

Acrostic

In the North we had the cold war. Sirens screamed; we crouched under desks, thin arms covering thinner heads. We were post Pompeii petrifies waiting for a future dig. We never left an atomic shadow.
This  sums up all life-threatening fears of the Boomers, the Echoes, the A's through Z's. Of course, Boomers then were too young to worry.

We've never had planes or bombs fall from our skies (there was the Arrow disaster).
We've never had a crop blight, famine or drought.
Food has never been rationed.
Hurricanes, cyclones, typhoons or tornados don't happen here;
We get snowfalls we plow through till they melt.
We're non-tsunami. Flooding is seasonal, geographically isolated, and dealt with.
We've had no great fires or earthquakes like San Fran or London.
We've never been drafted, and only go to wars of our own choosing.
We have not been invaded or occupied;
P.E.I. has no extermination crematoriums.
We avoided Inquisitions, Salem witch hunts and Small Pox blankets.
We've had no Race Riots, but a few barricades have gone up and down.

Death comes to us as to all. Car accidents, dumb-*** accidents, and even ******. Though never expected, always anticipated. We grieve, some longer than others. It's not easy, but we manage the shock.

When the glaciers glide past the coast of Nova Scotia, on the way to New York, my generation (and probably yours) will have been replaced.

But now! We're asked to Social Distance and wash with soap and water. In Canada we have plenty of both. I'll occupy my three square feet of space for several weeks (knowing there are only 52 in a year). No complaints. No asinine TP runs. Just behaving myself, HUMANELY.

Two Anna's hummingbirds, dance at the door
under the pane, in a mid-morning pour
whispering winds, voices through chimes
a whimsical picture, woven in rhyme

Perched on a limb (just a few yards back)
a pileated pecker, with breast of black!
foraging sparrows, partners in crime
picking out seeds from conical pine

A weighted blanket, and dark roasted brew
sipped on a rocker, with the daily news
the stream keeper watching, fluttering high
dipping and darting, at (wild) passers-by

Baseboard heaters, comfort the room
four months to go, to the April bloom!
the afternoon passes, in dense gray fog
a sliver of sunshine, catches a log

Into the evening, a soft glowing light
gusts on the water, gulls take flight
crows at a distance, nestled in trees
branches swaying, to a south-east breeze

Patterns of nature,  the rhythm runs deep
“those rich forest gems, to the soul they will creep”
an archway to heaven, with guiding raccoons
look over yonder…the quiet tan moon!

"I know an agent, who knows your man, who has a machine to do the job in no time."

… I'll book a flight then

This time,
I’ll sail on a freighter cabin,
Back,
Have a B&B waiting
In a familiar town,
In County Cavan.

I’ll visit with my Uncle,
Drink ***-boiled water
From tea-ringed mugs.
I’ll pour out questions,
Wear an extra layer
To stay the chill,
With my muddy wellies
On his cement floor,
In his soot-walled room,
Behind the  sky-blue, wood rot door;
With the road encroaching,
As never before.
A light dangles from the end of a cord,
The tap is just outside the door,
A four burner propane stove
Provides heat to boil and cook.
The Immaculate Heart
Is missing from where it once was,
In the nook, on the wall.

The thistle encrusted lane
Leads up a hill, from behind,
To a natural well,
Where animals watered and grazed.
Beyond, hedgerows of bramble,
With walls of stone,
Delineate the fields;
Seven in all, they called their own.
But seven can’t stay home.
The youngest,
The unchosen one,
Lives there now on his own.

There' s no cold ash
In the open hearth,
Where generations
Died and birthed.
Despite the depth of the walls,
The rusted roof and lifeless stalls,
The whitewash too
Will bleed to earth,
Onto the tumulus of dirt.

... then, I will book a flight