I drank too much again last night.
Think I called you on the cell,
Said some words and caused a fight.
See, things for me ain’t  goin’ too well.
‘Nother job lost. Arrived too late
For a third day in a row.
I hit the sauce and left to fate
A future moving much too slow.
Then pawned my chains to pay the rent
Instead I bought more beer.
‘Cause sittin’ home is time well spent
To hide this lonesome fear.
I made mistakes with you, I know,
I wish that I could change ‘em,
Toss ‘em for the wind to blow
Or, at least, rearrange ‘em.
I popped another beer just now,
To quench this endless thirst.
So many emptied, still, somehow
It’s like I’m on my first.
So, I’ll drink too much again tonight,
Try to call you on the cell.
Maybe I can set things right,
See, things for me ain’t goin’ too well.

it's four in the morning,
and the man you left is sitting on the barstool still in mourning.
he's trying to understand how you feel,
but it's really difficult to do since when  it comes to shots he's had his fill.
he wonders what he did wrong in the your relationship that from his perspective is "ours,"
and what you don't see as you walk away is that he feels remorse so he'll continue this cycle for hours.

All I could feel was red,
from the trees
that had roared
like flaming manticores,
                                                     ­ to the sky
                                     who had bled
                                                      its final dawn..


The veins in my head cut sharp corners
through my temples,
trying to break free from the prison
of my mind.
Steam emits itself
from my ears.
The amber tea was ready.
Lava erupted
from my face
and through my head.
I felt it ooze
                                    through my eyes
                    through my ears
                   Even through the corners of my mouth.


My demons stayed dormant
no longer.
My fist shook holding them,
my mouth relentlessly
sewn shut..
I bottled them like genies
and stored them
in a cellar.
                                                         Hot-blooded merlot
              and Foam-at-the-mouth pinot.

After a drizzle
the concave leaf turns pitcher,
for tiny killdeer

He leans back in a rusting fold out chair,
Resting his eyes from the burn of yellow light,
Illuminating the cracked concrete floor.
He places a glowing cigarette between his lips,
Brushing his stained hands against the scruff of his beard.
He exhales,
And white puffs of smoke float out of his lungs,
Into the darkness of the night.
Swarms of ants circle like a storm around sticky spilt beer on the ground.
The panels across the walls shake,
As Jimmy Buffet’s voice blares from the radio,
An echoing voice inside his head.
The green light emitted from the radio reads 4:09 am,
Every inhale tastes like the irresistible stench of gasoline,
Destructive, yet consuming.
The fridge buzzes like white noise,
Blending into the sound of chirping crickets and rain.
The sticky summer air wraps itself around his skin.
A glass rests on the counter, filled to the brim.
The bubbles dance, tempting him.

*****

how would you like it

the bartender
sighs the lord’s name in vain
understood the slurred wittiness

wobble onto stool
****** over
joining the rest of the line

sweet

the sound
system jests that one song
about a breakup
puke on the sofa next to your carpet

it’s yellow
swayed hips
shoulders give way

diluted In and Out closed
turn over

moist

to the Devil’s dance floor
where a pretty ugly Frenchie took your wrist
foot strikes a patch of ice
popped cherry on a yellow wheel stop

get up dizzy
scrape on forearm
the impassionate spring fever

wrapped around neck
constrains body against

*****

hands stroked rock hard back

she asks if she could have a stick

reached into baggies
pulled out a yellow
she takes halo
you took halo

got into the convertible

a silent triumph when you insert your key

twist


---
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)

pour
clink
down
repeat.

maybe
this time
you can take
the heat.

actually,
probably not,
prepare for
defeat.

I reach for the beer glass

but the glass isn't much.

I reach the paper

but the parchment has gone stale

and crumbled


I reach for the woman

for thigh

for small of the back,

but she has taken

into unshaven arms

of sleep

and snores


I Reach for the pill

but someone's hid the bottle.

Whiskey makes me sweat

great floods of violence,

sharp words with dagger tongues.

Beer boils yearning

into my blood.


So I reach

for the words

but they too

have dried, withered,

and no longer make sense.