Its always in those last hectic
days leading up to the
next celebration.
Either on the Eve of that day
or a few days before that.

At the neighborhood bar
or parked along the coast at sunset.
At their mothers same old house
or one of the liquor stores
still open at two.

You'll see that face or faces of those who
were smarter than you,
those who were braver than you.

Those who took that first chance
they had and moved as far away
from this place as they could.

Those with the same city name tattooed
in the same spot as you on
that same drunken night so long ago.

Their eyes have less anger and '
their conversation is less about
the past and more about what's
beyond this place.

Something about their faces,
their wives, their twin children or
the true concern they have in
their questions.

The grief they express at finding out
another has passed with the year.
The questions they ask that you
purposely avoid answering .

That feeling you get at still being here
like a cigar store Indian or a
'Welcome Home' sign from the
last time they were here.

There's something in them
that died in you so long ago.
Something that grew in them
that'll  never grow in you
as long as you're here.

Something they found somewhere else.
Something you've been looking for ,
something you'll never find here.

There was a
time so long ago
it's as if I was
someone else.

Back when
he was all
of what I had hoped
to become.

Throughout the years
he prospered as a
working man.
Which brought along
the burdens
of becoming a family
man.

As he fell
into the horror that
is "The Domesticated Life",
I was on the
streets doing
what I knew how.
Or surviving beneath the
long gun on a desolate
prison yard amongst
the souls that man
had condemned

As the drum roll
of the life that
is America
played itself
out like a re-run you've
seen too many times.
The working man
he had always been
began to turn
more into a drinking man.

There was nothing
romantic or
exciting about
his drinking.
Nothing good ever came
out of it.
Nothing like
when Hemingway
did it.
Or when Bukowski
took hold of
the bottle,then
mastered it.

His demise
approached like
a slow moving
swell.
Slowly gathering
up all he had
accumulated
throughout
his years
of labor.
Steadily
gathering
the momentum
needed
to fall a man.

And when that
wave of failures
and alcoholism
finally hit
the shores of
his reality.
His will had already
been weakened
and the little bit
of fight he had
left in him refused
to put up
his fists in
defense.

I bore witness
to that which has
to be far more
painful to see than
death.

I watched a man give
into the pull of insanity
as he threw it all away
without even the slightest
hint of grace.

It's scares me
when I talk to people
and hear how
wrapped up they
are in
meaningless *******.

Long haired California girls wear skin tight jeans with 7' inch heels  for a trip to the liquor store.
It's getting harder to tell which ones are dancing by night and spending by day.

Panhandlers and the truly insane sit outside stores they can't afford.
Asking people they don't know for help they really don't got the time or reason enough to give.  

Every soldier needs an enemy or they wouldn't be any use for any soldiers at all.
All these Cops decked out in Army grade hand me downs got me wondering "Who is their enemy?"
As I look around and only see us and them.

Latch-key kids all over this city talking on cell phones while eating $4.00 ice cream and riding a Hoverboard.
Independent little adults who see no reason to respect anyone or anything  at all.

You only see stray cats in the ghetto.

I'm against everything based on Fear.
Propaganda in this country has hit an all time high.

People don't even care about the Truth anymore.

The Truth is all I Care About.

I will make enemies and be ridiculed
while protecting the Truth.

Protecting it from all those who wish to smear their
Fear based ******* upon it.

We had some of the best talks,
some of the best laughs.

I got some of the best advice,
and we shared some things
we always considered secrets.

I forgave him and
he accepted me and all my flaws.

And I spent hours and days
there beside his death bed.

Watching as he bravely faced
the empty shadow of death.
The tears all fall in silence
as what's left of him fades
like slow clouds behind the mountain.

Leaving behind his broken vessel
for us to cry over, for us to miss.
For the caretaker to burn all away,
for my Mother to toss into the waters.

The dog won't leave the impression
he left on his bed.
The cat wonders the house
checking all the rooms.

His keys and his wallet still sit
on the counter.
The dog still won't leave his room.

I'm sitting in the kitchen but I'm not really here.
My brother hasn't said a word.
My uncle has'nt stopped drinking.
Mother keeps on crying
and there ain't a dam thing I can do.

Its my need to know
that keeps me from turning
out the lights on this forever.

The more i know
the less I feel the need
to add to the crowd.

I'm shattered like
a programmed
*** kitten or teen aged
fame slave.

I like a Moon that's
transparent and
clouds that wont
float away.

Girls on magazine
covers and Girls
in the Bar.

I like moving on the highway
and watching the flashing city lights
as I forget what it was that led me to this.

Fabricated history finds
its way into the text books.
How smart are you who
quotes the lies you've read
and argues their tales as truth.

There's never an ending to all
that we've been told.
The more I discover the
less I find was true.