i got drunk on your words,
drunk on the empty promises,
sipped slowly from the devil’s cup as you
told me you loved me.
i ,
i liked to get drunk on beautiful things,
on sweet nothings whispered into my ear,
on rose petals from wilting flowers that you never
bothered to buy me,
on the lingering scent of your
cologne on the bear you asked me to give
back (you eventually disregarded),
on the thread of white , silk spun lies.
on love,
while you get drunk
off of cheap alcohol,
even though you told me
you hated what alcohol does to people,
the way it manipulates states of mind
for the worst.
but i guess you’ve changed.

I miss our silent conversations
And how we would watch movies
I miss your soft and soothing voice too
But the way I treated you was wrong
I'm sorry for everything I said to you

I really miss you.

we wear the time on our wrists
but its far too precious to waste it looking there
some of us have scars we used to be embarrassed about
now its a lost time in space.

I said
i like the smell of whiskey
and the whole cabin was filled
with puerto ricans and chile pepper
seeds scattered on the floor, a hundred
pots lined up on the stove with rouxs
and sweet syrups, masa mixed with
pork broth, shortening and garlic
the men lining the porch in
sunglasses and blue wranglers
going on about the rig or Virginia
or Hurricane Matthew--

what is it?
about running away?

I thought;
time passes so fast
I've clipped pieces from the past, snapshots i've unknowingly gathered
Uncle Dude three sheets out, standing in the kitchen
after you'd been drinking all day, your mom reminiscing in the corner
with tired eyes and stained fingers from wine,raisins, condensed milk,
consoling a drunk neighbor, (Florida State won earlier)
through the screen while you reclined in the sun or
the rotating image of your heels crunching through the
long morning grass.


I'd been sustained on quiche that needed no seasoning,
coffee creamer, cherry pie and the feeling of slipping bare
feet into boots, on quiet, on  
dark forearms and white biceps
the print of a little bird ring,
dark, brittle nights that smelled like cigars and Coors--


I've been trying to talk to God
all weekend but I think he's gone.
I think I'm alone.
I think I've run away.

I'm home, but there's nobody here.

.
Memories are shuttered —
In the out of doors closing,
For five eternal years we were,
Once married beside a church,
Beside a tomb.

And our hearts were simple, freed
Among the moss of grey stones,
Pebble beach and wayfare wishes
And wild doves seemed always
To be hovering.

And our only bed, growing ever
Cold as a cup of leftover wine —
We drank in sacramental prayers
Never uttered, never declared,
After all that was.

As it was after all, only —
A mere, makeshift dream.

I want to sit on the stoop with the good old boys
A scraggy old hound sat by my feet
To Chinwag about the good old days
When in the noonday sun we'd sleep
Of walking in the mountains
Of drinking from fresh streams
Not worried about the deer ****
But just living out our dream
Those days are now but memories
Just long held distant dreams
Now we just sit and reminisce
With my old dog at our feet