a while back, i grew a mustache.
i thought maybe,
just maybe it would make me a better person.
like Burt Reynolds.
the power of the mustache,
the responsibilities
were not known to me.
one look in the mirror, and i knew...
money would no longer be an issue.
ladies? no problem.
i went out and bought a $1200 camera,
on a whim.
that was all my money,
and like a child with a new toy
i was distracted for a short while.
guess it was worth it.
as it turns out, i could not handle the power.
now my money is gone,
and the ladies did not dig it.
so i sit here,
with a razor burn
and a thousand pictures
of empty beer-bottles.

what a fiasco.

the words don't come easy
on this head-pounding hungover day
every train of thought trails off
into intangible nonsense.
maybe if i buy a new pen? i think
perhaps then these words won't look so lame?
maybe a carbon steel ballpoint pen
with high-grade stainless steel trimmings.
i could engrave my name on it.
with a pen like that, i think
i could write cryptic poetry
that would bewilder the masses.
then i speculate the possibilities
of stabbing myself in the neck with a pen like that
with my name engraved on it.
possibly if i hit a main artery
in my neck, i think
that could work.
but i can't afford a pen like that.

the night is picking on those strings again
with ancient tunes that drip
dripping, screaming whiskey down my throat
and eyes filled with lightning-bolts
life, streaked like rain across my windshield
as I speed through red flashing lights
with whispering ghosts and glorious sights
i'm a rocket bursting, spitting flames
spitting memories ringing, and birds that are singing
as we fall from the sky
sifting through photographs
times and people that needs a story
but i will make them wings with sheets and sticks
strapped to the back of notes that fly back in time
a time itching in the back of my head
make me open my skull and scratch my brain
just a little out of tune

on the wagon, off the wagon
driving the ******* wagon off the road
and i woke up crying in that ditch
i tried sobriety
but there is a lot of shame leading down that path
these days i watch my beard grow
the string of confusing thoughts is stretching
a mind-**** of disorganized pictures
underexposed faces, smiling
for what reason, i wonder?
that head-worm ******* me dry
i still get out of bed (most mornings)
to a soiree of boredom
a cocktail-party of great pretenders
what is the sum total?
i wish i was still in that ditch
crying my heart out
drunk

my lord! you're a ****
a long hard fucky ****
well into the a.m, and not properly intoxicated
i wanna destroy the language
grind it to dust
watch it dance in the air as the sun comes up
****, anyway...
a headful of mute words
stop stop stop, go to bed
make sleepy sleeps, dreamy dreams
this is ****
**** upon ****
and i no longer get laid - it doesn't matter
already tomorrow
go to bed with no words
just a headful of night
my lord! you're a ****
one more beer, i beg you
then i'll rest

a melody of sameness
drains me of color
leaves me as an outlining
a charcoal line smudged on my sheets

and the tv is full volume, cause my neighbor is on full volume, cause his neighbor is on full volume

red faced people are yelling at each other
they are furious for so many reasons
and i don't feel a whole lot

it's monday, or tuesday, and so on - life humming in my ear
the red faced are cut off by breaking news, by massive destruction and devastation
human suffering
and i don't feel a whole lot

my neighbor bangs his fist on my wall, cause his neighbor is banging on his, and i don't know what day it is

there are bombs, rockets blaring through the night. many casualties they say. mostly women and children
i don't know the women, the children, i don't know my neighbor or my neighbors neighbor
the red faced are back on, gesturing and blaming
i don't feel a whole lot

i boil rice, cause i know how to do it, and children get their legs blown off, and women are decapitated
i'm just a crooked charcoal silhouette on my kitchen wall
cook for fifteen minutes over low flame until water has evaporated or rice is soft

**** and kidnappings and slow death. can someone tell me what day it is?

life is humming in my ear

the place was *****
***** like only the South can be
i was drinking bud lights
drinking the daylight away
drinking the outside, and the noise, and the heat away.
i was sitting amongst several gray-haired men
and i knew i didn't belong, but
they didn't seem to know,
or care.
they had toothless sisters living in trailerparks in Alabama
they had sons they had not talked to in years
most had seen war and death and destruction.
"vietnam!" yelled a man in the corner,
and threw his prosthetic leg on the table
the men nodded their heads,
and mumbled in secret agreement.
they were all missing some body-part or another
i guess that's what made them whole.
outside, wild chickens were roaming the dusty parking lot,
pecking on cigarette-butts and empty beer-cans.
we laughed, we drank, and we hid our tears
and as the bar closed down, Patsy Cline was singing from the jukebox
or maybe that's just how i want to remember it.
"i'll be ****** if this ain't the greatest nation on the planet" i said
and they all agreed.
then we stumbled out into the night
a night filled with crickets and fire-flies
and the occasional fist-fight
all in all it was a fine night.
one for the record books.