Plastic covered sheets in a old home and the husband wants to burn it down
Weak arms in me today with another glass of water filling me up along with white dry bread and meat and cheese
I’ve be eating meat and cheese sandwiches all week with some beer on the side.
Always Budweiser
Why Budweiser?

Crystal angels on the dinner table in the old folk’s home.
They think the angels will save them
I dream of a tiger trying to bite my hand off and driving fast and ******* the number 8 girl.

Beer always goes fast
and the **** breaks are long
eleven dollars for a six pack
the bus is horrendous
and sometimes the people bother me.
Everyone likes to talk these days it seems,
where did the quiet go?

Where did the first one go? She left like that
It was nothing good she has feelings of gold and I sink down below the stinking *******.

firing the bullets at the sea
Is worse than the people who lock their doors in the bathroom even though no one’s home.

I’ll write some poem at night when the sun is coming soon
People are sleeping
And I drink
I smoke
I write you dumb poems not even poems.
my poems- I listen to the music
- Being kind in rooms and beating myself- it happens.

Some while waiting for the bus have a tallboy hidden in their chest jacket pocket and sometimes they pull it out and take a big sip- they drink some more before the bus comes.

The bus comes
The people go
It’s freezing and raining outside
It’s spitting
The air smells fresh
some will finally accept happiness tonight.
Not me.

mmm...
                ****...
    am i drinking lemonade?
even the lower class
english lager
    tastes like a beer
compared to budweiser...
it's the rice, the rice!
i get coconut milk fused
with rice, but beer?
   the english amber bitter
tastes like a beer,
  it has a body,
   it has no anorexic palette
qualities like
budweiser has...
the english brand?
   90 pence at tescos...
   banks?
   can't remember...
        budweiser is a
***** of beers,
it's the anorexic of beers,
it's a lemonade...
         unless its english,
belgian, dutch, german,
czech, or polish...
  i'm forcing myself
to drink it...
        it's the rice!
        the rice fusion of
hops and barley malt...
       it's a lemonade!
there's no body to this beer...
king of beers my ***...
      more like: anorexic of beers
concerning the palette.

She stood up against the wooden bar lit by a stale football field that shined florescent green and highlighted polyester blue like a muse of Van Gogh or Galileo. Her hair ran down the nape of her neck like a ****** waterfall and the light of the bar highlighted her sphinx like eyes as she turned and caught his eye. He stood at a small table away from the main bar with a couple of friends who were telling stories of their old college days and he, half-listening, quickly looked away, faking to scratch his eye, for he knew he had been caught looking at the back of her and she, with her women's intuition of being observed and knowing this, kept looking and he knowing the only way not to show he had been caught was to look away quickly and very obviously; like a bad actor caught dumb and silent, clueless of their next line. They blushed and shared the heat of embarrassment in their cheeks with the sounds of worn dollar bills slapping hard against the smooth wood of the bar, the bar man eyeing it angrily as cigarette smoke surrounded them and slowly drifted up like a lost soul toward the ceiling and the piano man, eyes tight shut played for everyone there when no-one cared to listen, all underneath the dim light of the bar as they strained to look away from one another, trying to find something they could put their focus upon, but, at the same time, wanting very much to look back and have their eyes meet by mistake all over again.

He focused on the design of the bathroom placards that were in the right corner of the tiny bar where you had to turn sideways and touch shoulder's with every soul inside just to get a drink. He feigned interest in the bronze design of the men's bathroom: a tiny boy looking down at his pecker as he ****** a 1/2 inch thick stream into what the man gathered to be a sunflower ***. The boy was thrusting his hips forward, both of his hands on his side, and he showed no smile, no grin of satisfaction or victory, just a stark, blank face, as if he were thinking "I am peeing in this ***. That is all." The women's bathroom sign was of a young girl with the same kind of *** the boy had been ******* in, but it was missing the sunflower and was replaced by the *** of the girl. She stared up into the sky and into the ceiling lights and was dramatically reaching for a butterfly or bird - he couldn't make out which - something with wings and made him think of a basic metaphor that this poor little girl just wants to get off the *** and be free like the birds and butterflies and clouds in the wide blue sky.

She focused on the man's shoes. She looked at the black shine and the pristine black shoe laces, all looking like everything had just been purchased that day. "There is not a single scuff on them and the way this man cuffs his pants only a single turn," she thought to herself, "Tells me he has something of a style on him". Not so run of the mill. Something special. Something of interest.* But then, she was annoyed by the cuff of the pants because she remembered that was what all the schoolboys in her prep school would do when the day was rainy or the boys rode their bikes home from school or they were nerds. The memory immediately turned her off of the man all together, but luckily, she put her gaze back on the jet-black, seemingly un-touched leather that told her success, class, and security.

The man heard a loud Cheer's!" from his table, abruptly bringing him out of his distraction. He was forced to turn and as he did, he made sure not to look up. He kept his eyes on the table and looked for the half-full beer with the worn Budweiser coaster underneath it. He could see from the his top periphery that she was still facing him but she was looking down at something toward the floor. He fumbled with his large hands for his glass and panned his eyes up slightly. The woman, seeing the movement at the table, looked up. She stared back to where she had first caught him looking at her and waited. The man felt her looking at him and in the same instant, saw the faded Budweiser coaster and reached for his beer. He picked the glass up and as the second Cheer! was yelled, he clashed his glass against all the others, all the while keeping his head not toward his friend's faces, but turned in the direction of the bar toward the girl. He smiled at her as he lowered his glass, not taking a drink. His friend slapped him on the back and told him," You gotta' drink after the cheers or its bad luck," and so he did, still staring dumbly at her as he did. She nodded at him with a self-conscious and embarrassed grin, raised her nearly gone low-ball glass of gin and tonic and tipped it toward him and turned around to face the bar.

"I"ll stand here and wait for him to come up to me," she thought, "And if he doesn't the man is a coward and a louse and not worth my time. I have looked twice now and there is some rule in some magazine that I read somewhere, that if you look twice at a man that it is sign, not a coincidence. No, it has a purpose and though I barely know what reason I want this man to look at me other then to get a drink out of him and maybe some conversation, I am certain I have looked twice, maybe even three times. Yes. I have looked at him and I have made my interest known and now I must wait for him to either come or stay with his drunken friends. They look like frat boys cheering like that. They look like drunken, silly frat boys that wouldn't know the first thing about chivalry. Hell, they probably couldn't even spell the ****** word." She laughed under her breath and smiled maliciously to herself and caught her own reflection in the mirror and, for an moment, wanted to quickly look away. Her face did not frighten her, for she was a beautiful woman, not her skin, which was milky white with the faintest and gentlest dash of rouge on each cheek, nor her chocolate colored curls that bounded like boulder's down a hillside. She turned away from a look upon her eye she had not seen or had recognized in a very long time. Her eyes were frightened.

"Frightened?" she wondered.

The man put his beer glass on the table on top of the coaster. The foam rested at the bottom of the cup like the thin layer of ice that blows over a frozen lake, barely there at all passing with the wind. He stared at her back and liked how she leaned on her right hip and put the toe of her left high-heel to the ground, rocking the nose of the shoe back and forth like she was thinking about something playfully frivolous. Behind him, the noise of his friends became a hollow echo, drowned out by the draw of this woman. She swung her left heel back and forth like a pendulum trying to hypnotize him. Someone touched his shoulder but he shrugged the hand away as in this echo chamber he could only hear the music change tracks on the juke box. The song had changed to an old Ottis Redding song and there was nothing else in the world that he wanted to listen to in that moment. As he watched her, leaning into the bar seemingly all alone, no boyfriend or girlfriend in sight, he saw her raise her glass to the barman and knew she had something by the gentle nod of the back of her head. He then saw her point with her left finger and tap the rim of the glass. Her drink was empty. She wanted another drink. He would buy her another drink.

"There is nothing in this world that a man is more responsible for than getting a woman like this a drink," he nodded, thinking to himself and trying to pick up his courage,"One that plays with my heart like a kitten would a spool of yarn, and yet also like a vulture who would peck out the eyes of a dead man in the desert. This is nothing more then that obligation. A rule passed down from man to man, from age to age, where chivalry was not for the base reason to lay with the woman, but to honor them, praise them lightly as the rain from a heavy mist and show them to the pedestal every woman, whether they wish to admit it or not, do wish for, sincerely do at least once in there life." He readjusted his belt and realigned his shirt that had gotten crooked after the celebratory cheer and thought some more,"I'm not going to do that here, this pedestal stuff. This is more like a step toward that pedestal. Yes. A step toward the shrine she wants to trust she deserves and will one day end up on. And this shrine is all cast and painted in the blurry french film noir of dream, is it not? Aren't dreams the only thing we hope to one day come true? How often - when and if they do come true - they can sometimes disappoint and eventually turn sour like a bad orange. I hope she is drinking and that wasn't just a tonic water. If this woman doesn't drink I don't think any of this will be worth anything at all."

She stood there serene and angelic, the hand that held her drink now resting on the base of the bar. Behind the man, he heard the chatter of his friends and the drone of football scores and player updates coming from the ten or more televisions that hung from the ceiling. Someone reached out to touch his shoulder but missed him as he left the table. His name then echoed behind him but soon the sound evaporated as dew does that rests on blades of grass in a summer morning to a summer afternoon. There was only her and her smell that had drifted to his table and shrouded him with the scent of white chocolate and smoke and her delicate, porcelain hand that had held up the drink shyly but not weakly, in passing demand without that demanding quality drunk people can get like at bars sometimes. He approached her, hovered behind her, but she did not turn, and then came up to the bar to lean into. He did not turn to look at her, though he wanted to very badly, but looked down at her low-ball glass with two half-melted ice cubes and a used lime. The smell of gin came from the glass and the man smiled to himself and put his hand up to signal the bartender.

"If this man orders his drink first and walks back to that table with all of his drunken friends, I am giving up men all together," the woman thought to herself," * Tonight and forever! If he can put his hand up and not even turn to look at me, as I was doing, I thought, to be very flirtatious but gentle, then I see no reason at all to keep going with men. They are barbarians that only want to eat, drink, sleep, and fornicate with women that are easy and provide no real challenge at all in their life. If he wants it easy, he can have it as easy as he wants, but not with me. No sir. Not with me ever. Not with me for a night, an hour, a minute, or even a second."

The bartender, a stout slightly overweight man that was a little over forty with streaks of grey in his thin, short-cut hair, looking very much like he should be home reading with a nice cup of tea by his side rather than in the bar serving drinks to stranger's, approached the man and asked him what he would like.

"Two gin and tonics please," the man said, "With a slice of lime and four ice-cubes in each."

"And what kind of gin, sir?"

The man turned to the woman, "What label do you drink?" he asked.

"Pardon me?" she stuttered startled, her eyebrows raised.

"Your drinking gin, aren't you?" He nodded his head toward the woman's empty glass. The tiny lines of transparent lime skin floated on top of the water that had gathered from the melting ice-cubes.

"Yes, I am. I was just about to order."

"I'll get this round and you'll get the next one."

"Any gin is fine."

The man turned to the bartender," Tanqueray, please bartender."

He nodded and went to make the drinks.

"Your very perceptive," the woman said as she turned to face him.

"I try."

"I saw you from across the bar, but was afraid to walk up to your table for fear of getting ambushed by all of your friends. Those are your friends, right?"

"Yes," he nodded as he looked over his shoulder at them, "Old college friends all with old stories of college that, truthfully, bring me little or no joy to even hear."

"Then why come at all?" she asked, "You seem smart enough to know that if you meet up with old anything, you'll be hearing about the old times all night."

"I was forced to come."

"Someone getting divorced?"

"No," he laughed, "The opposite. Married."

"Well, I hope it's not you or this would look very bad if your fiance walked in."

"And why's that?"

She clicked her tongue and turned to look at the shelves stocked with every kind of liquor. The bottles reflected the soft orange glow of the lights that circled the bar and the colors of the television screens. The man continued to look at the woman who had turned her back on him and caught their reflection in a bottle of Jack Daniel's. He waited for a response, but she stood there silent, knowing she was playing with him. Behind him, his friends were growing louder and a tray of shots had found its way to their table. The waitress who had brought the drinks, polite and with a smile, asked them to try and keep it down. They shouted "YES'S and screamed "YEAH'S" with moronic smiles on their faces, their heads nodding up and down like a dog playing fetch. The waitress giggled a thank and walked away shaking her head with disgust when she was out of sight.

"Well," she said,"You did just order two gin and tonics and I think if your fiance walked in with you chatting with me with the same drink in both of our hands, I think she would be a little upset. I know I would be."

"Perhaps we could act like we are old grammar school friends and just happened to run into one another?"

"Well, that would be a lie."

"Yes, that would be a lie."

"Which would mean we were hiding something from said wife."

"And what would that be?"

"That you approached me after I looked at you, perhaps the look from me wasn't flirtatious, maybe I thought you looked familiar, like I had seen you somewhere, and you came up to me and ordered me a drink and started a conversation with me, much like we are doing right now."

"What's wrong with conversation?" The bartender approached them and placed the two drinks in front of the man. The man took out his wallet without losing his gaze on the woman, took out a twenty and slid it toward the bartender. The bartender took the twenty, paused for a moment to see if the man wanted any change, but left when he saw he didn't want any by not moving.

"Conversation can lead to very dangerous things," the woman said playfully and wise.

"Your here by yourself and your not stupid; someone is going to come up to talk to you."

"And your that somebody?"

"I'm sure I'm not the first one tonight."

"Your sweet."

"I try," he said as he slid the drink over to here,"Your drink."

"What should we drink too?" She asked and raised her glass, the light above them reflecting in the ice-cubes and thick glass of the high-ball.

"Conversation," he said proudly and with a smile, "And the danger that it brings."

They clinked their glasses together, their eyes never leaving one another, and they both took a long drink.

"I'm not here with anybody and I'm not expecting anybody tonight either," the woman said.

"What's your name?"

"Why?"

"I want to be able to tell my friends I met a very interesting woman, but they won't believe me if I don't give them a name."

"I'm standing right here, silly. Go and tell them you met the most interesting woman in your entire life, look over at me when they ask you what my name is, then point over to me and I'll wave."

"You'll be here?"

"I'll be here."

"Promise?"

"Go, go, go," she repeated, pushing him back toward his table, "You bought me a drink, didn't you? The least I can do is wave to your drunken college friends."

The man walked back to his table, glancing quickly over his shoulder, trying to hide it, before he reached the table. He arrived to all of them drunk, beer spilt on the table and an ashtray full of punched out cigarettes and ground up cigars. Every one of them were rocking back and forth with each other, their arms sloppily hung around their neighbor's shoulders, their eyes blood shot with their mouth half-cracked open barely breathing in the smoky, beer smelling air. The man struggled to wedge his way into the circle, and when he did, he tried to get the groups attention by screaming an

. like some pop canadian psychiatrist might, lecturing males about *******, unlike some lars von trier... let's just say that i can understand of jerking off having been mutilated, oh, sorry, circumcised, having an improved impetus for the opposite partner... sure... love the lecture... a male's missing ******* is compensated by a couch with extra pillows of a woman's ******... i get it... one problem... one thing lecturing males on the dreaded degeneracy of *******... could this famous canadian psychiatrist, cool off, and lecture females about their exhibitionism? no? not real? ****... i took the alternative route jerking off... took to fine art nudes, and selfies women take of their cleavage... i might be a sore jerking off loser... but she's the ******* exhibitionist.

ever walked down a desolate road,
with only cars whizzing past.
and no pedestrians?

ever walk and stop,
under a street lamp,
exasperated by the stealth of rainfall,
slow...
   airy, almost floating,
like a myopic cloud covering
your eyes?

ever walk into an alley beside
a baptist church...
ease up, take a ****...
and then drench your hair in
rain (water)?

ever glide over the sheen of
concrete covered in
wetness that soil would
otherwise, hide, and ingest?

the temperature is still there,
can't get sparkles,
guess i have to settle
for squid liquid glee of
the cement...
give it three months...
the paparazzi will glitter
the mundane cement gore...

and then walking down
a road, downhill...

             /
            \
             /
            \
            /
           \

i might have been drunk...
but i was going / left to right,
nd \ right to left,
spectating the rainfall
under each street-lamp...

  **** me... what a beauty show...
like watching someone
spin candy floss!
  
i squinted my eye...
   un-squinted it...
    mezmo...

              better than an l.s.d. trip...
   auburn come autumn air...
a slight fragrance of decay...
        french puff pastry...

slow rain,
like a postcard enclosed in
an envelope...
    like carbonated water...
a gesticulation of imitating
fizzy, in terms of air...

     pure... magic...
so i did what no other drunk does,
walked down the street,
a ******* zig zag parade:
  
             /
            \
             /
            \
            /
           \

  or Z... x6...
            the linear aspect implying:
i paused, and admired...

              just a little rain,
and all the streets were empty...
what space...

by the way...
   is Budweiser truly the king of beers?
my local supermarket has started
selling
            asahi...
         well, technically liquid amber is
evening sun, not morning sun...
but seriously...
        Budweiser?
the, king, of beers?
   if they stopped milking the Chinese,
injecting rice fermentation...
then... maybe...
         Budweiser is the ******* beer...
yak ****...
         it's akin to the story of
of: pork because of bacon...
   bacon is crap...
       pig head and cranium terrine...
  or pork kabanossi...
         but i give the h'americans
bourbon...
god i can't resist...
   do all brothels "stink" of
Kentucky bourbon?

         every time i open a Kentucky bourbon
i am reminded of having visited
a brothel...
    and the kissing like
oral ***...
                      perfumes! perfumes!
perfumes!

   floral patterns on the lips
that pucker up to vines and needles
leaving them shut...

     **** me... even the *** beer has
a story, rather than a kingly stature
behind it...
   karakuchi...

or as one must summarize:
i got to the brothel for a hard-on,
i go to the cinema for the pseudo-acting...
your chiral female to example...
limp **** and i might as well
be eating ****...

          and then there's Californian Punk
of the 1990s...
           which?
does British politics even exist?
to make a punk mooo-v'eh-ment?
           i brought the cows,
but forgot the cow-bell
for Nazareth's hair of a dog...

     as we know it...
punk died in California in the 1990s...
punk ist tod...

come to think of it...
no one does blogging when testing
alcohol...
  ****... and it would be censored...
if someone should do a social media
type of critique,
getting off his *** when drinking
an asahi beer,
of a whyte & mackay whiskey...

      here's what it could look like...
in writing.

He didn’t come home
again last night
And then he wondered
what started the fight

You’re 44 not 24
is what I said
His nonchalance had me
seeing red

I finally decided
on what to say
I believe in my analogy
to this day

I’m like Budweiser
just like your beer
This is definitely not
what he wanted to hear

You stray away
from your tried and true
But always come back
to the red, white, and blue

Other flavors tease
your senses
And you always want
the other side of fences

But in the end
you always come back
Come back home
to your reliable sack

When will you realize
it’s not always better
I know who you are
right down to the letter

You’d think at your age
this point in your life
You’d know by now
they aren’t your wife

What will you do
when I’m finally done
When I pack up the truck,
the kids, and run

Would you miss us
just a little bit
Or would you give up
throw in the towel, just quit

Knowing you, you wouldn’t
let us go
Even though you
chase after hoes

I’m so tired of this life
that I now have to live
It will soon be time to take back
my love I so freely give

ah man... it was just a saturday night,
wet cement
   and street lamps glaring down at me...
it has to be something to do with
password, which i created at 17 "centimetres"...
what's troubling me is the beer i had
on the way... it could very well be dubbed
nameless... bavarian...
but unlike Budweiser... no fermentation of rice...
nothing like budweiser, that ****** albino
of beers...
          no no, nothing crisp either, like you might
drink it on a hot summer's day...
this was different...
     it was extracted from wheat...
ever drink liquidated wheat?
        what, not ever?
    that's why i took the picture which is sitting
in the background...
the beer was so memorable that i kept the actual
bottle...
      who would have thought, that by adding
wheat to the usual medley of barley and hops
you'd get something, worth writing about...
of course, as i spotted the onset of spring
and trees blooming with those little flowers...
  but that beer. ****, on, me...
        it's revolutionary what they do these days,
fermenting wheat, on top of barley and hops...
you almost want to eat grapes rather than drink wine...
want to start a revolution? start brewing beer
incorporating wheat...
   i was actually walking from street-lamp to street-lamp
reading the ****** label...
you sure this isn't belgian?
           either that, or i looked completely stupid...
  it's there though... it's not a budweiser
with that ill aqua-fresh feel of fermenting rice...
it's a co-op (supermarket chain name,
also do funerals, like multi-facet parlours,
or ****) -
what a ****** name for such a good beer though?
wheat beer... bavarian wheat beer:
   made with malted wheat and barley...
   who does that to a masterpiece?
   someone who probably whistles along
to symphony no. 2 in A-minor...
and never bothers with proper titles...
    like.... francis bacon's studies of lucian freud...
i'm guessing they're lazy about naming
their output, simply to they have so much of it,
and it has to look clerical, or let's say:
    surgical, imply that against
the other dictionary that humanity possesses:
an algorhithm...
insert the words: word for surgical, clean...
   ah! there it is, the little ******...
antisepctic...
         just as well... when writing can but does not
reach an elevated status...
   isn't the thing that you take to bed and doze off
using it as a sleeping pill...
    the bit of me that already stated:
i wanna be as rough and toiling as a lumberjack,
as the lumberjack said: writing was never
about creating a *****-magnet,
a bit like a cow, in a field, less bulls to **** me,
yet more bothersome paper-clips like flies to
daunt me... or that's what a tail is for,
to disperse them...
           the devil and a tail and an impotence of
a tail that he uses for a trouser-belt, but doesn't wear
trousers, merely picks it up, that flamboyant additive,
and swings it to a twirl of full circle,
walking away while whistling
and saying: the part where i say: i've eaten the heads
either side of a cooked chicken bone...
heads? those parts that need lubrication,
so the things that are later called gensis: arthritis...
but it was in all earnest, a magical beer,
a revelation... who could have thought that wheat,
that from wheat alone, i'd be walking the night
and actually sniffing the neck of a bottle...
   like an arab in a bakery, sniffing freshly baked baklava...
and that really is, pistaschio galore...
oh right... pistachio... no s... taccos and chow mein...
apologies, i sometimes forget what the "unspoken"
rules of **** schizoi consist of...
write it one way, speak it another way -
sure show... how about a Pinnoccio drinking a capuccino
donning ccinos? again: what i see as necessarily
dyslexic: it's actually pinocchio,
   and it's cappuccino... and it's chinos....
and all that, from the greek χ (chi)...
or whatever χ was doing when the family k c q
came about... i'm thinking q is a mistake given
the already stated optical implants that really do,
deviate from how to base clear-cut memories of:
in case we need to remember.
    i still know that s z and x have a thing going on.
that beer... budweiser tastes nothing like
it might, ever, don a crown to encompass the spectrum...
you're basically drinking this beer
           and you're thinking belgium, but it's
bavarian... and i'm currently in a youtube vlogger's
punctuation mode...
   watch way too much of that **** to end
up writing like i am, right now;
                                          eeek! a teenage girl! run!

Blessed are we all to live in a time
when the love of Craft beer exceeds that for wine.
Hops, malt and barley all now rule the day
When brewed up together in a nice I.P.A.
Who cares if some hipsters choose to babble away
about hints of oak in some obscure Chardonnay.
We are no longer limited to our father’s Budweiser.
The vast choice of beers would astound those old timers!
Cherry Wheat, pumpkin, and Oktoberfest
You’ll fall down on your face ere you’ve tried all the rest.
As Ben Franklin stated wittily and succinctly”
“Beer is the proof God meant man to be happy.”

Be mine the nectar golden,
Under the blazing sun,
Droplets of water roll down,
When the cold bottle an me are one,
Excitement as it hits taste buds rolling down,
Instant refreshment as it goes down,
So let there be many not just one
Enjoyed with friends in the pub or at home,
Really the best beer Budweiser is number one..

We took the back road to the house. The shade from the trees made the road feel like tunnel. Not a shred of light came in. We'd have to drive slow. The road wasn't made of concrete: it was made of dirt, rock, and dead leaves. Sometimes we could see the worms come up out of the dirt in the headlights, their pink stretching bodies like weird little fingers. Carrie never looked. She said it was too scary. The rest of us would look and watch them dance around like that. Sometimes we'd have to run them over. Of course, we'd feel bad about it, but we needed to get back to the house. There were things to be done. Nothing planned, but nonetheless, things to be done.
Englend reversed the car up to the front door. The liquor, the food, and the beer was in the back and would make it easier to get it from there. Patty and Carrie (the one scared of the worms) ran straight to the bathroom. They'd been complaining about how we never stopped at a gas station to ***. Englend said we didn't have the time and I just didn't care. Denny was in the same mindset as me. We usually were. Kat was looking out the window, thinking about something she didn't wish to share when we started to unload. She offered to help after she'd finished her thought, but the three of us said we had it. We didn't really, but we let her have her thought while we carried the bags. There weren't that many to complain about anyway.
When everyone was inside unpacking their things, I hung back and smoked a cigarette. I looked down at the river. It was full and rushing. The trees were full with bright, lime green leaves. The branches were tanned auburn from the sun. They looked the forearms of the Mexican girls at my high school: smooth, everlasting, stretching to a place I was never allowed to touch or look at. I ashed my cigarette into a pile of leaves and immediately worried that I was going to start a fire. I kicked it out, thrusting my boot heel into where I thought the ember had went.
"What the hell are you doing?" Englend screamed from the front porch, a handle of whiskey underneath his arm, a glass with ice in the other.
"Ashed into the leaves," I told him, "Trying to take it out." I kicked the leaves a few more times, then walked towards Englend.
"Let me get a hit of that," I said, pointing at the handle.
He spun the top and it rolled off the tread. The cap rolled off the deck and Englend chased after it, handing me the bottle first.
"Take this. Where'd the hell it go?"
"Down there somewhere," I said, pulling the bottle back. The sweetness of the whiskey hit my nostrils first, then the bite of the liquor. I coughed, feeling my eyes begin to water. The first one was always the hardest. After that, they got easier.
June had just ended. July was just arriving. The third was tomorrow and the next day was the fourth.
I took another pull from the handle. I placed on the decks railing and left Englend with it. He was still looking around for the bottle cap.
"I thought I saw it roll under the deck," I told him.
"*******," he moaned. He looked up at me, "Come and help me. It'll be faster with two."
"Can't. Gotta' check on Carrie and get ourselves a room."
"*******," he moaned again, reaching under the deck.
"Don't get your hand bit by a possum or rat or something!" I yelled behind me, going inside. "Carrie!" I screamed, "Where'd you go?"
"Upstairs getting our room ready!" I heard her scream from the 2nd floor, "Come and help me put the sheets on."
I went into the kitchen. Denny was stocking the fridge with the beer and the meat. I reached over his shoulder and grabbed a Budweiser. He had an open one in between his knees. The light stuff was on the bottom to the far left, the heavy stuff in the middle, and the expensive IPA, hoppy stuff to the far right. The top shelf was for food, mixer, and whatever else the girls had decided to get at the store. Fruit and things. I opened up the freezer. There were two handles of Smirnoff resting on three large bags of ice. We would need more ice. I closed the freezer and ran my fingers of the labels of two more handles of Cazadorés tequila and Bulleit bourbon. Overall, I thought we were fairly stocked for the four day weekend, but one could never be to sure. People came out of the wood work for the 4th of July. No telling who would show up at our front door.
I went upstairs to see what Carrie was doing. She was laying on the bed with the sheets resting on the dresser. The light was off. The room was cast in that light grey pigment that happens when the bedroom light isn't there. It was nice. The sun had been straining my eyes the whole time even though I had been driving in the backseat. Carrie was laying face down on the bed. She was wearing a skirt, so I slowly laid down on the bed and inched her dress up. She didn't flinch or move, so I pulled it up until I saw her burgundy lace *******. They looked pressed or ironed or something they looked so clean.
"What're you doing?" Carrie asked me, her face down into the mattress.
"Just looking," I said.
"At what?"
"At your ****."
"Why?"
"Cause' it's nice."
"Close the door."
I got up, closed the door, and laid back down.
"Lets put the sheets on the bed first."
"OK," I said.
We put the sheets on the bed, but couldn't wait for the pillows and the rest of the blankets. We tried to be quiet, but knew we weren't. After, we took a shower together. I rubbed Carrie's shoulders while the hot water rained down on us. She said it was better to get a massage in the shower because the hot water loosened up the muscles. I didn't know if that was true or not, but I did it anyway. I watched her as she unpacked her bag. Her hair was wet and it swung back and forth, wetting her back. She was wrapped in her favorite pink towel. Water dripped from her body down to the floor. I waited to put my things away. I had brought up very little. Mostly *****. Carrie took up most of the dresser. I had one drawer by the time we were finished.
We took a nap. After we were done sleeping, we looked outside and saw the sun had been replaced with the night. The stars and the light coming from inside of the cabin streaked out into the forest like a splash of golden florescent paint. Carrie and I poked our heads outside to listen to the creaking trees and the rustling of animals through the bush. Someone downstairs was lightly clattering dishes as they cleaned them while the smell of red maple firewood burning in the fireplace came up to our room. I took out my phone from my pocket and looked at the time.
"****," I said, "It's already 10 o'clock."
"I'm starving."
"I'm starving and need a drink."
"Let's go downstairs and see what they made."
I slipped on my 501's while Carrie straightened up her hair. We went downstairs and saw two plates with hamburgers and fries on them. Patty was at the sink cleaning the pots and pans. She was staring down into the soapy froth, humming a song to herself I couldn't understand. She hadn't heard us come down. Denny, Englend, and Kat weren't in the living room.
"Where is everybody?" I asked.
"Oh!" Patty burst. She swung around, a soaped up frying pan in her hands. "You scared the **** out of me!"
I put my hands up, "Gotcha!" I said smiling.
"They went for a walk somewhere and left all the dishes for me."
"Leave'em," Carrie said, taking Patty's hands and wiping the soap away with a rag, "Van and I will take care of them."
"I only have a few more..."
"I insist!" Carrie took Patty's arm and lead her to the couch and laid her down. I took a cup from the pantry, filled it with ice, and poured Bulliet half-way up. I handed the glass to Carrie and she brought it to Patty.
"Look at that," Patty smiled, "Full-service."
"What you get when you come up to the Dangerson cabin."
"**** right!" I exclaimed through a bite of hamburger, "Only the best here."
Patty leaned her head back after taking a long sip of the whiskey. She exhaled and closed her eyes. I watched her as her chest heaved up and down. She kicked off her shoes and let her hair fall over the armrest of the couch.
"You said they went into the woods, Patty?"
Carrie took her burger and went and sat next to Patty.
"Lift your legs up," Carrie said, "Let me sit with you."
"Yeah. They went into the woods an hour or so ago. Probably a little less."
I opened the fridge and grabbed another beer.
"What were they going out there for?"
"I have no idea."
"Probably to get firewood or something," Carrie said, "Can you grab me one of those."
"Sure," I said, tossing her one.
"Wait," She yelled, throwing her hands in the air. The beer landed right in one of her flailing hands.
"Nice catch," I laughed, opening the fridge and grabbing another.
"You're such a ****!"
I smiled and walked out onto the deck.
"He really is," I heard Carrie tell Patty.
"I heard that!"
"You were meant to!" she called back to me, laughing.
I shook my head and opened the can of beer. Why did they decide to go get firewood now? We had plenty of wood here already. Patty probably didn't know what she was talking about. That happened often. I strained my eyes to see through the darkness, maybe see if I could spot a flashlight or the round end of a lit cigarette, but the forest was just a wash of thick blackness. Even the stars had grown faint.
"Englend!" I shouted.
Nothing. Not a peep. They were far out there.
"Englend!" I shouted again.
"What the hell are you shouting at?" a voice said from the trees. I couldn't tell who it was, but it was someone I knew.
"Who the hell is that?"
"Well who the hell do you think it is?" It was Englend. He came out of the trees like a wild boar. He had a handle of whiskey in one hand with a pile of small twigs and firewood in the other. What came to mind first was a mix between a drunken Brawny guy and a pinecone.
"What's all the screaming about?" Kat asked, trailing behind Englend. Denny followed behind. They all had armfuls of wood. From what I saw, little would be useful, but I kept that to myself.
Englend came up the deck and handed me the handle. I took a long pull. As I drank, I looked up into the stars, which were now out and shining brighter than they were before. A cloud had moved, wavered off somewhere, presenting the gifts that were behind it. I lowered the bottle and watched Denny and Kat walk up the stairs. They were smiling.
"What are you two so happy about?" I asked, handing Denny the whiskey.
"Gimme' that!" Kat snagged it out of my hand, laughing. She took a long pull. Denny, Englend, and I watched, amazed that little hippy Kat could take such a heavy shot.
"Good God," I murmured.
"She drinks like a pirate," said Denny.
"A ****** pirate," added Englend.
Kat was especially small. Not a small person small, but petite. She also had a great *** and could out drink, out party, and out do the rest of us in debaucherous shenanigans. She had never heard of the word or feeling of shame either and did, really, whatever the hell she felt like.
"I heard that you *******," she said, exhaling, blinking her eyes wildly.
"That was a biggun'," Denny said, taking the bottle and pulling it.
"Needed it. Englend had us wandering around the ******* forest for firewood the minute we got here."
"Do we even need any?" I asked.
"Course we do!" Englend exclaimed, "Gotta' keep our ladies warm!"
He put his arm around Kat and shook her.
"Gross..." Kat frowned, her face pickling while she squirmed out of his arms.
"You love it Kat...where's Patty? Where's my babe!?" Englend thundered off into the house.
"I'm right here," Patty squealed. She was still on the couch with Carrie. She kicked her feet crazily as Englend jumped on her. Carrie jumped off just before he cannon balled onto the couch.
"You guys are SICK!" Carrie screamed.
"You love it," they both said in unison. The two of them play wrestled until Patty finally got Englend by the ***** and kissed him.
Denny handed Kat the bottle," You want another?" he asked.
"I'm good, Denny," she said.
"Hank?" He asked me.
"I'll take one, yeah," I said. I pulled it back as Kat went inside. I exhaled and looked at Denny, "So, you and Kat are the only two legitimate single people here. How you feel about that?"
"Hopeful," he said.
"That's good to hear. I'll see what Carrie can do."
"Sweet," he said nervously.
"Let's get inside. Patty made some burgers."
"Thank God," Denny sighed, shaking his head, "I'm ******* starving. Englend had us walking for ******' miles.
"No idea why. We have plenty of wood downstairs."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. Lots of it. I cut a bunch the last time I was here."
"******," he laughed, "Englend told us were out."
"He doesn't know what he's talking about," I said. We walked into the kitchen. I put the bottle down next to Carrie, who had made her way from the couch back into the kitchen. She looked at the bottle, then at me.
"What you drinking there?" she asked me looking at the bottle.
"Whiskey," I told her.
"Can you not drink so much?" she whispered so no one could hear her.
"I'm good," I said, taking her hand, "I just drank a little bit outside while I was waiting for Englend. They went on a wild goose chase for firewood."
"Good."
"Denny was telling me they went all over for the stuff."
"Why?" she smiled, "We have so much from the last time we were up."
"That's what I was telling Englend, but he didn't care. Guy gets antsy."
"Who's antsy?" Englend called from the couch. Patty was wrapped up in his eyes, looking drunk from the single shot Carrie and I had given her. Kat was on the couch with a beer. Denny was hovering by the door, rocking back and forth on his heels still holding an armful of fire wood.
"Why don't you just leave that by the door?" I told Denny, "Take a seat. Stay a while."
He dropped the firewood by the side of the front door and took a seat on the floor in front of the fireplace by Kat. He looked up at her and smiled, but she didn't notice. She was sipping her beer, rummaging around in her pocket for something.
"What I was saying was that you guys didn't need to get anymore firewood or kindling or whatever the hell you guys got because we have a lot from the last time Carrie and I were up."
"I saw those logs," said Englend, "And they're ******* twigs compared to what we got!"
Everyone laughed.
"Well," I said, opening the fridge for another beer (I wasn't sure where my other one had gone to), "I'm not taking the **** down."
"All good, we'll take it down."
"You'll take it down," said Kat, "We had to walk through half of the ******* forest to get to your secret wood spot, then walk back. I'm finished with wood for now."
"Fine," Englend moaned, "I'll take it down in the morning."
"I'll help you," Denny added.
"Good! We got two big guys to do it. It'll be done in no time."
I turned around and opened up the cabinet that was filled with shot glasses. I took six out, put them on the table, and filled them with whiskey.
"Let's take a group shot before we all start getting snuggly and sleepy."
"Great idea!" Englend shouted, popping up from the couch.
"For America!" Patty giggled, following Englend.
Kat helped Denny from the floor and walked over to the counter. They parted hands when Denny was on his feet, but I could tell he wouldn't mind holding her hand for the duration of the trip.
"I'm glad to have you all here," I said, "Glad we could do this."
Everyone nodded, smiling, holding their golden brown shots in the air.
"For America," I said.
"For America!" the rest of them yelled. We soaked in the glory of fine whiskey and hazy conversation for the rest of the night.
Everyone was moving slow in the morning. Englend seemed to be the most up out of everyone. I walked into the kitchen to him whipping 12 eggs, grating cheese, pan frying potatoes, bubbling coffee, and pouring orange juice into mimosa flutes. The champagne was already out. I thought, a little alcohol will probably do me some good. It did. After my third glass, I kissed Carrie when she groggily walked into the living room. She preceded to slump onto the couch. I brought her a cup coffee and some Advil. She smiled meekly into my glazed over, blood shot eyes. I could tell she was hurting, but she would be right in a couple hours. Once we got into the river, all would be right.
"Jesus," said Carrie, "You guys are already drinking?"
"Of course!" Englend laughed, "It's the fourth and it's already noon. We're behind if anything."
"And Englend made breakfast," I said.
"I can see th

1-When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.........

#2-The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.

#3-The TV business is uglier than most things. It is normally perceived as some kind of cruel and shallow money trench through the heart of the journalism industry, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free and good men die like dogs, for no good reason.

#4-“In a closed society where everybody's guilty, the only crime is getting caught. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

#5-We can't stop here, this is bat country!”
― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

#6-We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of *******, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers... and also a quart of tequila, a quart of ***, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.
Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

#7-“You better take care of me Lord, if you don't you're gonna have me on your hands.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

#8-Hallucinations are bad enough. But after awhile you learn to cope with things like seeing your dead grandmother crawling up your leg with a knife in her teeth. Most acid fanciers can handle this sort of thing. But nobody can handle that other trip-the possibility that any freak with $1.98 can walk into the Circus-Circus and suddenly appear in the sky over downtown Las Vegas twelve times the size of God, howling anything that comes into his head. No, this is not a good town for psychedelic drugs.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

#9-“We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

#10-“With a bit of luck, his life was ruined forever. Always thinking that just behind some narrow door in all of his favorite bars, men in red woolen shirts are getting incredible kicks from things he’ll never know.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

#11-The possibility of physical and mental collapse is now very real. No sympathy for the Devil, keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

I'm doing a little better lately
but I got these habits
I can't tell my mother about
This summer
I learned
  how to develop a tool for engineers
  to like the taste of beer
My life is a list
  of    disappointing lists
  of a disappointing life
when did I start buying whiskey
when did my friends start selling ****
when did my life become my life
  I never really get a chance to understand myself
  I often wonder when I learned to      hate myself
I've been doing this for too long.

Grown Up "Cool Kids"*

Nowadays cool kids are wearing business
Suits *and  ties all the boring time,

Nowadays cool kids are chewing tobacco
Drinking Budweiser AND wine,

Nowadays cool kids are driving break neck
Speed to get to everyday places,

Nowadays cool kids are going to war and
Using bombs to "save us,"

Nowadays cool kids are paying $6,000 for
The cheapest pair of braces,

So this is what being "cool" is all about?
And this is what makes America so proud?

Where I come from being cool is being wise,
Staying clean and sober, honest girls and guys,
Who don't have to hurt their health
Just to have a really good time.

Aye,..Uhh
where the ****...Where..(Where the2)..drinks..(Where the2)..****..(where the2)..drinks..Uhh..Let's have some fun tonight mane, Yeah let's have some fun Aye..(Where the3)..****, where..(where the2)..drinks,..Where..(Where the2)..****..(Where the3).. Drinks..(Aye, let's have some fun tonight mane2)..(Yeah..let's have some fun2)..Aye..
Burn up, Blaze up..Yeah burn up, Yeah Blaze up, Yeah po up, Yeah drink up, Yeah burn up..Yeah po up..Yeah..Blaze up, Yeah drink up.. let's (turn up2)..Yeah..let's..have (some fun2)..Yeah have fun mane..Aye..(Where the3)..****..Yeah..where..(where the2)..drinks..(Yeah let's have some fun2)..tonight mane,aye..(Where the2)..****..Yeah..(Where the2)..drinks..(Aye let's have some fun3)..Tonight mane..Aye..Po up Yeah, Blaze up Yeah...drink up *****, & burn up man..(let's have some fun..Yeah3) man..Aye

OFTR, we throwing a house party like we in the 70s era dawg, yeah we gonna have this **** jumping like Kid n Play dude.., mane
The whole crib gonna foggy filled up wit hella smoke, aye..Yeah ***** that dope..Yeah that good kush aroma dawg..The only thing you can really see is the fire at the end of the roll up..Everybody drinking yeah Everybody rolling up, Yeah everybody coughing & choking & (having fun3).. Yeah..my nigaa..Yeah we puffing on funky, Uhh.. Homie leave all the stress at the front door man..so
Don't bring no drama, don't bring no problems, don't bring no *******, don't bring no false ones, & don't bring no stank **'s please dawg..forget blowing ******, we got sticky icky grown organically, no pesticides Yeah mane..just straight THC Thats it..home grown , Yeah we..(having fun3)..relaxing kicking back Yeah kicking back a young ***** had a long *** tiresome day, now its time to unwind get high & have some fun..Yeah..man..Uhh..
Yeah, its time to roll up,Yeah, its time burn up, Yeah its time to po up..Yeah, its time  get super drunk..
(Yeah just having fun2)
(Have fun3)...man..

Yeah, we gone turn up tonight dawg, Aye we got 40s OEs, Aye we got champagne, clicquot mane,Aye..we got Budweiser, bud lights,coronas & 2,11s by the case load,..also *****, gin, & vsop..Yeah we getting ****** up like a white fraternity, please don't throw up mane,..make sure you eat..Aye mane, **** what people think about me I just live my life, who's the **** to tell me I ain't living right..nobody **** right..
(We having so much fun yeah3)..tonight   should be here dawg , come now, Noo we ain't stopping till the morning.. That's how OFTR party dawg..Uhh Yeah we party hard Aye..


(Where the **** at mane,Yeah where the drinks at,Aye4)...(burn up, po up, twist Yeah, don't stop..Uhh,Yeah3)..
/Don't stop,3../3...
ever *****..let's go..
Noo I ain't done wit this song no not at all
...Ohh, that's what you thought dawg, ****, I still got some more turning up to do.. Man I still got kegs & bags of marijuana that ain't even half way through we getting throwed ,like a football, Yeah we so gone mane..(Ohh3)..Yeah dawg, Let's go..
(burn up, po up, twist Yeah, don't stop..Uhh,Yeah3)

/(Have fun3)..Yeah mane/2
(Have fun3) Yeah..Uhh

where the ****...Where..(Where the2)..drinks..(Where the2)..****..(where the2)..drinks..Uhh..Let's have some fun tonight mane, Yeah let's have some fun Aye..(Where the3)..****, where..(where the2)..drinks,..Where..(Where the2)..****..(Where the3).. Drinks..(Aye, let's have some fun tonight mane2)..(Yeah..let's have some fun2)..Aye..
Burn up, Blaze up..Yeah burn up, Yeah Blaze up, Yeah po up, Yeah drink up, Yeah burn up..Yeah po up..Yeah..Blaze up, Yeah drink up.. let's (turn up2)..Yeah..let's..have (some fun2)..Yeah have fun mane..Aye..(Where the3)..****..Yeah..where..(where the2)..drinks..(Yeah let's have some fun2)..tonight mane,aye..(Where the2)..****..Yeah..(Where the2)..drinks..(Aye let's have some fun3)..Tonight mane..Aye..Po up Yeah, Blaze up Yeah...drink up *****, & burn up man..(let's have some fun..Yeah3) man..Aye




We doing what we want Yeah..we having so much fun man, we twisting & drinking we living free Yeah..we living freer..than they want us to be , Yeah..we breaking all the rules like **** Dat ****, Noo, we don't care about polices, noo, we don't give a **** about nothing, like **** all the laws homie, Naw mane,
/we just do what we want..(Yeah2..)/2
we gone kick back & roll up the whole pacc, Yeah man,we gone  wake up tomorrow & do the same **** again..Yeah man, we gone live it up..(Yeah, we gone have some fun3)..tonight.. (Yeah2)..Aye..Uhh

Where..(where the3)..**** at...Where..(Where the3)..drinks at..Uhh..(Where the2)..****..(where the2)..drinks..Uhh..Yeah
Let's have some fun tonight mane, Yeah let's have some fun Aye..(Where the3)..****, where..(where the2)..drinks,..Where..(Where the2)..****..(Where the3).. Drinks..Aye, let's have some fun tonight mane..
(Yeah..let's have some fun3)..Aye..

(Uhh..Yeah, Blaze up, burn up, drink up , po up, Yeah Blaze up, burn up, turn up, drink mo3)
(Have fun6)..(Yeah have fun4)..
Man..
Let's have some fun..Aye

When I found out you were dead,
I looked at your photo on the mantle.
It seemed older now, your crooked smile
and that Budweiser hat you always wore.

What is it about dying that gives
our portraits a new power of time?
A drunken nostalgia pushing tears
down over our eyelids onto our cheeks.

When I look at your photo on the mantle
I feel a creeping thought crawl through:
"You seem like the one who'da died."
Not fate, not destiny, definitely not God,
but a part of who you are, the man we knew
had a trait that fit death so sweetly,
like a sad song from 1961, and a line we loved
about old cars and holding on, just a little while.

You seem older now, you'd be 33 this year.
Your crooked smile would be different,
and that Budweiser hat you always wore
wouldn't fit as well as in our photos of you.

They gave us the sun to explore this earth, the moon to go back home ... For in your dreams is another reality, and one you rarely see... Lucidly at least... Your dream self has explored. Has suffered. Has laughed. Has felt the fear of not being able to run as real as you feel me pinch you. How can that not mean something? How can I wake up every single morning, and not take a second to appreciate the opportunity to go back home, but wake up here...
They had to make these experiences feel real. They had to make us believe that being "awake" was as good as it got. They can't make money off you if you live in your dreams...so they refuse to let you sleep... 

Wake up! They scream. With their TVs and electro beats. With their Budweiser and whiskey. With there horsepower and responsibilities. With there everything. 

Fall asleep. In DMT. find the path they don't want you to see, find the boy that needs to breathe, find the answer and use the key, because we have the power to accomplish EVERYthing. SCREAM. "LEAVE ME BE!"

Stay out of my bank account, stay off of my streets, take your big brother, and give me back trees....

I spent Thanksgiving
this year
not in the blue-collar comfort
of my aunt’s house,
nestled somewhere
within a well-buried suburb
of a quaint, but un-noteworthy neighborhood
with walls decorated with Budweiser signs
juxtaposed against portraits of the ****** Mary,
where a football announcer’s voice plays like
conservative talk radio
in the background.

Instead, to save the labor
of my weary immigrant grandmother,
we dressed in Sunday best
and drove ourselves in
three well-packed mini vans
to some elegant hotel restaurant,
ideal for people-watching
from the gaudy, art-deco staircase
while pretending to be in the Great Gatsby.

It didn’t feel natural, though,
that beside a modest turkey breast
with cranberry dressing, sat a beautiful
cut of prime rib, carefully ladled
with truffle au juis–
nor beside a humble dollop
of mashed potatoes and gravy,
should there be salmon to die for,
and berries slathered with brie.

The food I nibbled
with bites of nervous guilt,
as the impeccably dressed waiter
exhaustedly refilled our water glasses,
nodding his head reflexively
to my mouse squeaks of “thank you’s”

What monsters are we,
letting these people work on Thanksgiving Day?
Grandma said, calmly, that some people
are just happy to be paid,
recounting
her impoverished childhood
in war-torn Germany—
that to simply muffle
the aggressive rumbling
of a days-empty stomach,
she and her brother
would ****** a handful of
potatoes from a government farm,
not many, but just enough
as she grimaced
at the ever-so-slight mealiness
of her rosemary-infused pork chop—
the woman who couldn’t afford ham
until she became a citizen.

We nodded quietly and
swallowed our privileged guilt,
washed down with
politely cut bites
of perfectly cooked salmon.

i. the beer:

of all the drugs available for legal consumption,
well illegal too,
   i love how alcohol is the only
with a credible, even a romantic story,
take today, as an example,
  i took a gamble (the english really know
how to craft "flat" beers - namely ales...
in terms of lager? ******* can't beat
the central europeans - carling...
    that's all they can summon) -
but this one i came across today was a gem,
crisp and i am a sucker for crisp,
but not enough body of a typical ale,
body? flavour...
                  **** me, having a chemistry
degree i should be brewing...
     ah, but i do have enough vine
      for about 12 bottles every year,
but the dream? well, with music shops
doing the dodo march... i guess the ever
present ambition is to brew beer
(and yes, ***** is brought about by
the fermentation of potatoes);
   but i just love how every bottle has a story,
take this one for example:

               sharp's (rock, cornwall)
  (and yes, cornwall is bue -
            quiet unlike the rest of england,
  they even pretend to be
   "basque" separatists -
  goergie goergie - poachy poachy -
            king john the **** -
raise the black flag with a white cross
to invert the teutonic banner of
             black cross upon a white flag!)

aye ****, d'er beer:

           *doom bar
(est. 1994 - exceptional amber ale)

but like i said: not much body in it -
if a budweiser is the "king" of lager -
then this is certainly a "king" of ale.

the story? verbatim:

    'at the mouth of the camel estuary in rock,
cornwall, lies the trecherous doom bar
sandbank, the inspiration for this
exceptional amber ale.
                the sandbank is revered as a
formidable nautical challenge that
should be approached with respect and
nagivated with skill.'

well **** me, i'm off my rockers, i get a beer
and* a story... bargain,
                            at un' poond und aye-tee!

ii. lactose intolerance / constipation /
             a 4th of the "horsemen of the apocalyspse":

of the four "supposed" horsemen of the apocalypse?
i greatly admire but one:
                                          daniel dennett...
and for what, if not the virtue of being
humbled, awe-stricken, and not much of
a sophist -
                    i.e. a rhetorician.
the other three?
                to me, just a trio of pompous
*****... but daniel dennett?
now that's the bearded fellow i can admire...
he's the humpty-dumpty of the lot,
  he's like the epitome of the socratic method,
translated from ancient times
   into modernity - i.e. not the dialectician:
but the mediator.
      
   and when he mentions lactose intolerance
in humanity beyond the years of man's
"instinct"... i approach a well-known woman
to me (after all, i shared her body as
a foetal "parasite") -
  and she's tried all the could to alleviate
her constipation...
            i walk down the stairs with a bright
idea:
             how about you start drinking
raw milk?
                      maybe raw milk would ease
the constipation?
                           she replies:
not even if i had raw milk with a cherry...
worth a try, i say,
given that i've never seen you drink raw
milk...
        me? i still drink the raw fluid ivory -
better drinking that,
       that shooting rhinos for sport...
for some reason i can't get enough of it...
  cheese beckons?! not really...
but give me a pint of milk, and i'll drink it
in one worthwhile summary:
   concluding in an empty pint glass.
maybe milk will ease the constipation?
   who knows, worth a try.

but of the four "supposed" horsemen,
   i have respect for but one...
      yes yes, hitchens sycophants out there
than have their carnival of mumbles
and ooh and ah's... and a-ha's...
          yes, eloquent to the highest degree,
but a pompous ****** the name came to be;
only on the death bed, was he ever
earnest to curb his sophistry -
       and as said:
              nearing the abode of death,
              man stands undressed,
              in mind and body,
              the unlikely foetal kindred -
              naked, in the fluid of change -
              readied for the onslaught
              of the forever eternal flux.

iii. the three animals (laika, albert jr.,
&, why of course: dolly):

funny, isn't it...
           if there was a soviet darwin,
the soviets would have sent an ape into space...
but instead they sent a dog...
  
seems hard to find people with ape pets,
domesticated in the allign of a zoo -
    probably just as hard to keep a domesticated
money, as it is to keep a pigeon take
to a return roost...
hence the romanticism of space exploration
residing with the soviets, over the americans...
the world will forever remember
  a laika than an albert jr. (originally albert II,
but lets not allow aristocracy into the domain
of the lesser mammal) -
  and laika will always burn an imprint
into the mind, a dog always overcomes
the monkey in the here & now
                                 (dasein evolution):
but that's space taken care of...
what about time?
         none other than "alice", i.e.
     dolly the clone sheep... cloning
explores time... and dolly was the first
explorer of time, or the perpetuation of said
artefact...
                   do i sense a "humane" obstruct
being imposed?
         the frankenstein phobia?
               oh i think i'm right on the money...
with so much knowledge and so much
power at our hands, the collective man seems
only orientated around the carnal dynamic
of perpetuating itself around a dynamic
of pains and ills...
                       never the broad shoulder
giant looking toward the western continents
from the shores of portugal...
                by now we realise we're not
standing on the shoulders of currently-temporal    
giants... but on the shoulders of:
midgets!      
               as i a child i conjured up the idea
of the other A.I. -
nothing technological...
                  i actually thought of
insemination - and if auschwitz would still be
open, i might have joined ol' joseph in
the experiment,
but like a true scientists: beginning with animals,
i.e. impregnating a dog with human *****...
or a monkey with human *****...
obviously jo mengele would have
preferred the reverse, i.e. impregnating
a woman with the ***** of the already stated
examples...
                       well... in the dark aeons of
*******... hasn't anyone noticed the crude
representation of a white woman,
******* the phallus of a horse?
     ah... you weren't internet savvy in the early
00s... what with rotten.com.

My best bud
It's sure not  a dud
Pop that top. up comes the suds
Drink of the hottest studs
On my mind all day while I work in the mud
Runs through my blood
Hate to say it,  in a flood
**** that bottle, hell I could drink a jug
Sorry ladies turn your head because I will chug
Afterwards come over here and I will give you a big *** hug
I will be acting like a big  lug
Had much rather have a bud then any kind of drug
Budweiser
Sure the hell makes me a lot nicer
Don't know about wiser ?

Since I am an old geyser LOL
Well, almost!!
Always have one in hand
What would I do if it was ever banned
all across this land
"Life"
Bud and a hot rock-n-roll band
Drinking it until I crash land
Then afterwards
Struggling to stand
My girl sure  the hell does not understand
My friends taking the witness stand
This life sure is grander with my
Budweiser
     !!

I think you're gone
but there is inside me
that voice
disapproving, judging
I had celebrated my freedom
with a Budweiser
and some tears
not realising like
Steven King's
Lawnmower Man
you had been released
into my every nerve ending
my very being
part of my matrix
in life you had the strength
of an ark angel
and as I stumble
over these words
I am afraid retribution
is at hand
I am still scared of secrets
to let too much show
you once asked if I still
write poetry after dissing it
well I'd hardly call it that
this is my fear factory

“The autopsy will confirm no trauma to the body
no foul play”

Face down in the river
whose name means forked tongue
A crow investigates
where water frowned in flotsam
face down—muddied
hair, mustachio
jeans and striped tee
whose--

“name has not been released pending...”

...His loves
tattooed on upper arm

“Coroner awaiting the next of....”

He'll wait a while
for “Mom and Budweiser” to finally check in
He may have...

“He may have been... ...a resident of
The Cozy Care Home”

where he paid for the care
questioned the cozy whose agent demurs—

“The turnover here is just so rapid... steady current of guests
No one ever noticed....”
“...this is Jacqueline Henry with WBSH News”

“The autopsy will confirm...”
First of the month
to town on a mission
Just a short hop
from stone to stone
from day to day
from rock to a hard place
Looking for a short cut
to Tasty Cakes, bologna
Wise Chips and a 40
cross the gurgling,
glinting light and liquid laughter

...This river has a forked tongue...

...a resident
...a resident
who paid to get missed
who one week before
on the easy way of an April day...
Knocked down, gasping
knocked down
and yanked through his forty-eight years pulled through panic
by lean muscle of current
wishing for something...
for someone
to hang on to!
The autopsy will confirm

This river lies

Budweiser cans lay on the floor like empty mortar rounds,
the smell of Jack Daniels as potent as battlefield blood.

Weekend wars where we fight ourselves for pleasure.
Waging conquest on the banal.
Losing limbs and liver for a life less ordinary.

The air in my apartment is stale like cigarette butts,
buried in mass graves in an ashtray over full.

Weekend warriors where we battle for a new fix.
Waging conquest on the week day.
Losing steady vision for a life less ordinary.

The room was clouded with wisps of smoke, the smell of cheep tobacco mixing with the foul fetter of Budweiser's.

Heavy boots crowded the compact living room, some pacing on the floor, others resting on stools, and one certain pair standing on the couch. As the evening waned, their owners smoked and drank and composed.

The fan droned on above the huddle of men, attempting to counter-act the thick, humid air and suffocating clouds of smoke.

Likewise, the window hung open, a slight breeze entering in, attempting to remind the men that outside there was spring. However, not even the sweet smell of growing grass and greening pine trees could awaken the thinking mass of musicians.

Under the soft whirring of the fan hummed a gentle strum of acoustic guitars, two were in sync, one was free to do what he pleased.

At first the song was melancholy, an almost sickening minor protruding through the chords.

However, the two guitars which played this mournful tune were soon over-ruled by the lone guitar, this guitar introducing an almost ****** tune, sweet with lively colors, walks in the park; moody with aromatic evenings spent in wild-flower fields and peaceful nights sitting by the river, fishing and playing Texas Hold'em for pennies.

This strum of chords soon awakened the other musicians and as their ears perked up to the sound their eyes fell upon the man, the man with the boots that stood on the couch.

As the groups' gaze circled onto the man, he finished with a lulling C sharp minor and pulled the smoldering cigarette from his mouth, cocking his head towards the men and smirking ever so slightly as he proclaimed in his proud, deep, southern accent, an eyebrow raising to mark their heedfulness, "And there, gentlemen, is true music."

Half asleep, driving for hours
with Budweiser bottles,
warm from the heating.
The windows were all down,
we were smoking rollies,
all sharing one lighter because the driver
dropped his in a can of fanta.

Next thing,
the roar of an army of twincams.
VTECs, something insanely beautiful,
and incredibly ridiculous,
a convention of petrol heads—
Gardaí everywhere, searching for tax
and insurance. My God, I was in it.
Hundreds of thousands of them,
all excited like children,
the screaming of a million voices,
no exhaustion in the exhaust fumes.

The hills rose around us, the traffic
packed backwards,
expensive cars all sardined in a roundabout.
How loud can you get it?
Can she sing like a canary?
Can she find herself at the Letterkenny rally?

At night the trees
Move of their own accord.
Control for me is not
A real thing, but something
Of a fantasy.

A fallacy.
A lie.
White in its innocent,
But poisonous by its touch.
One can never be loved
Too much.

I wake with the morning.
Sun over my scarlet covered eyes.
Her breathing like that of
The wind; effortless and a mystery.
She says she is nothing but happy,
But I can sense her misery.

Calluses line my hands and as
The dawn turns to morning. I put
The coffee and tea on for boiling.
Creatures of habit spinning with the Earth
For all eternity until death do us part.

In my reflection, I see glimpses of my younger self.
Tools rusted neon orange and dark brown.
He hands me the hatchet that rests heavy in my hands.
He says something as he puts down his Budweiser can.
I bring the metal head down.

Are we not split like two pieces of wood?
Do we not have two opposites within us?
One wants what the other does not?
I inch out of bed and put on my socks.
There is a new day outside and just like the rest.

The thick pine branches adjust themselves to the sun.
I hold my hatchet and tea.
She stays sleeping, gentle like a bullet less gun.
I put my tea down and listen to the lack of sound.
A riddle so complex, yet so simple.

Opposites.

Blue drops of the sky fall on my face and I blink.
Sometimes the minds too busy to even think.
I bring the hatchet down again and again,
Wondering what time my lady will wake today.
I turn to look at our home, our shrine, our castle.
The logs are cherry brown, pound for pound.

The river trickles near me.
It sounds like diamonds rattling in someone's pockets.
A crow calls from above me.
I look up and see nothing there.
Must have scared it off.

Dead pine needles snap and crack under my boot.
My throat feels like a chimney clogged with soot.
We used to use a broom to clean everything back then:
The roof, the kitchen floor, even the oven.
When we had no money is when we were the happiest.

Time stands still for no one, except for people in love.
Father was left alone because mama said she had to go.
A pistol and a weak heart took him away a year later.
No one but my two sisters and I left behind.
I take out an orange, peel it, and throw away the rinds.

Misology hovers near my ears, inviting despair
A cradle cracks in the back of my mind.
Hours pass and I've got a block four feet wide and four feet high.
She - my lady - is up now and I turn to wave at her on the porch.
A wave to me and a smile too.
She promises a back rub later as well as rabbit stew.

I plant my axe into the soft, cool ground and go inside.
Two eggs, a piece of toast, and a class of water greets me.
A full heart has no need for appeasement.
Only a worried mind needs to give itself a reason.
Breakfast is finished and the sun is perched at high noon,
So I take my gun from its shelf and walk outside.

Rabbits don't just jump
Into pots of boiling water

All by themselves.

Worry* is a scurvy rat
It is a man's main bane
It chews on your self esteem
It nibbles at your brain
It will take your precious time
Your energies will claim
It will hobble your very life
It will make you lame
You may try to capture it
But that is all in vain

Doubt is like a cancer
It eats at your bones
It takes breath from your very lungs
It turns your mind to stone
It makes you feel incomplete
It makes you weep and moan
Under it's all-nagging pain
You will retch and groan
It is resistant to all cures
And you cannot atone

Fear is like a little death
It turns the heart to straw
It strikes like a rattlesnake
With poison in its maw
It's like a fascist dictator
Who makes the harshest laws
It can take your greatest strength
Make it pernicious flaw
Like a sadistic doctor
With a large chainsaw!

How can a person battle
Worry, Doubt and Fear?
How can our lives get better?
How can we have cheer?
Jack Daniels has no answer
It's not Budweiser beer...

It may be elusive
At first just like a wraith
But once you have a hold on it

The answer is our *FAITH.*


SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/27/2016

I got into my space exploration vehicle.
(I got into my car)
I took off, and traveled on the intergallactic freeway.
(I drove down the street)
I was going to the lost planet.
(I was off to the drug store)
I took a few lefts at the asteroid belts.
(I turned)
I arrived at the lost planet, and landed safely.
(I parked)
The automatic entry opened.
(You know, those automatic doors)
The communication devices were greeting me.
(TV in drug stores)
I was searching for the mysterioous red and white cannister.
(I was there to buy a Budweiser)
I found it in the back, in a cold place, by the waffle demons.
(It was in the cooler by the ice cream cones)
I took it to the being, and we exchanged paper and metal.
(I paid)
I left, and got back into my spaceship.
(I got into the car)
I flew at light speed and altered my route to avoid the aliens who were also flying.
(I drove at the speed limit, and turned at the stop signs)
I arrived safely at my space station.
(I got home)
Thus has been
another of the continuing adventures
of Michigan Kongsaeng,
the great Nothing.

Around the eighties the Mumers New Year Parade in Philly
lost a bit of its tradition. It originally was made for
the average working family. But around this period
people were charged to watch them do their famous strut
and extra displays of course only at City Hall.
And so let us begin my poetic story...


Standin' among the crowd,
watchin' blue police-van-bleeders
being escorted; wearin' city-steel-wrist-braclets

And now struttin' my way,
psychopathic eclipsers
of physical freedom
seekin' potential comatose heads
to tap

And squads of finger thrusters
of back pockets for targets,
dart in and out of crowds,
quickly countin' their *****
in dark unseen places

Feet freeze
as sounds travel,
" Oh dem golden slippers"
soundin' like cheap tin toy Kazoos
and toy glockenspiels

The wind kisses
my **** end blue
as a flyin' Budweiser
kisses my right foot wet

Man made pop art
reflects the times
at the times
at Broad and Spruce
of cigarette butts,
chocolate wrappers,
and crushed beer cans
climaxin' montage
of the mountain- ****** eighties

Boozers and blue
sweet puffers
wearin' smiles
outside
and within most inner thoughts
puff-buffed away from some reality
step in cadence to their
own music within themselves

And wailin' children
havin'
more sense
than adults
become early sacrifices
to the fruit of Bacchus

The marching high strutters of "Big Bird",
they strain and struggle under the weight
of heavy hernia suits;
with feathers and sparklers,
their instruments wrestle as steamy air puffs shoot forward
from their nostrils
like  red-devil-painted-dragon faces
in the bitter cold air
warmly protected by their attire and *****,
they stop seemingly for eternity,
in the suspended purgatorial
halts
one after another,
only waitin'
for the grandstand reserved section
around City Hall
Yet we wait and pray together
that perhaps like in the older days
we will get a sneak of
a nostalgic, spontaneous,
free dance-strut
that never comes

Attached, yet unattached
and cryin' inside;
always on guard
for flyin' and drunkin' fists
or flyin' articles
of all sizes
Seein'  through
the facades of we must act
like ha! ha! ha!
I cry inwardly
with anger
doin' the rat-tat-tat
of no more nonsense
of my inner-self
Strivin' and movin' to flee Freddie Kruger's bladed fingers
I sting all over,
my teeth clinch with anger,
darkness intensified
The crowd becomes uglier,
blackness
engulfs
black souls
Vehement, crazy,
hordes and hordes of frustration bellows
outward
The call of Nietzche,
The ouch under my skin

This damnable real parade
not shown in Liberace-livin'-Color

No commercial breaks of luxury cars
that drive livin' manikins
Livin' manikins that wear dial under their arms
while smilin' the brand of Crest toothpaste
but instead,
a street drunk with
broken ugly teeth
as he begs for quarters
and blows his odorous breath
beyond description

And City Hall payin'-grandstanders
with tv cameras
bein' in the spirit of "Disneyland"
presents
the overly organized narcissistic prostituted
elegance of forever, floatin', bouncy,
dancy, prancy,
skippin' to the tune
of  mom's Apple pie,
a small slice of my reality

And the applaudin' money makin'
TV grandstanders
of goody goody
look mom I can do the swan dance
while holdin' multiple
colored sparklers
wrapped in feathers
But why must I
see through the eyes of a Godless Nietzsche,
**** it!!

Spray paint still stains the driveway
From that gift I sent you
Boxed up in the red white and blue
And 'MERICA, welcome to the USA.
Who could have guessed that the paint
Would be more permanent than you.
You can shove the Budweiser t-shirt and
John Deere trucker hat I sent at the top
Of your closet and forget about them,
But I can't scrub the spot off my driveway.

I lit the candle
with two hydros,
and burned the house
down with a bottle
of whiskey. The next
morning I wandered
through the ashes
looking for shower
invitations and aspirin.

Back in bars, filled
with screaming amps
and glaring ex lovers
I wove my way
in-between old friends
and mating dances,
losing Hemingway
and storm clouds.

I dropped the anchor
in your apartment,
falling mid sentence
into stain ridden furniture
and empty Budweiser bottles.
The only thing I broke
that night, was my determination
on not being a blow up doll
molded after some girl
I was never going to be.

So I laid there kissing
ghosts and shook
with a fever and chills
vibrating like telephones
on silent. And you wondered
where I went once
the door closed.

You can't define cordial as
branding someone
and mailing them back
to a delusional soul falling
in love with them
after. Hot metal
pokers weren't made
for joyous reunions.
They make sure you
always know where
you leave your scars.