"busch" poems
a soft grey blanket flows through the peaks of green pines
silencing the celestial voice of the moon
while steel horses restlessly paw, panting gas fumes
the volleyball desert, at first glance barren
reveals a complex terrain of mountains and cigarettes
to the watchful eagle's eye
a wooden temple towers, built on artificial ground
cool stone poured into aesthetically pleasing islands
a forty square foot-print
a holy site of human ingenuity
with offerings from the clans of Miller and Busch
lying scattered like bones on the monolithic plain
anbaric lamps imitating miniature stars cast shadows at night
and the once vibrant world takes on unifying hues of blue
I guess the old adage that
"misery loves company"
is indiscriminate of nature
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
How did we get here
where vitamin water turned into ***** and the power of innocence changed to the courage of
alcohol. The boys no longer opening car doors and the girls trading in t-shirts for crop tops that show off
what they were or weren’t wearing.
Where sneaking a soda after dinner turned into hiding a flask at the family party where we used to play games
like hip-scotch and dodge ball instead of drinking hard whisky and Jack.
The promises made in the D.A.R.E. program about not doing drugs or drinking
were traded in for drunk driving and “just one hit.”
How did we get here
where grape juice turned into white wine and a nervous kiss under the bleachers
at the Friday football game moved to steaming up the windows in the back seat of that car
at the party on Saturday night.
The knocking on your neighbor’s door for them to come out and play moved to texting
in the driveway and hanging out means sitting on your phone
while sitting on the couch next to someone else.
How did we get here,
where root beer turned to Busch lite and being home before dark
switched to struggling to be home before the sun came up.
The parents not knowing their innocent children are making children and kids being too drunk to remember
they promised to go to Church on Sunday morning.
Where asking for forgiveness overpowered asking for permission and sorrys turned into whiskey shots
and make up ***
How did we get here
with a drink in one hand and the other around my waist while you lean into me too drunk
to stand on your own.
This is the first time we’ve spoken since that day last June and I can’t help but notice why.
How did we get here
where the power of innocence changed to the courage from alcohol?
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 2:24 PM UTC
I can't take you with me
the trail's too steep
but I'll pack a few blurry pieces of you
sea shells and sand grain
boating and Busch Light
I'm rolling up your long, loud laugh
and putting it where the socks go.
so when I rest again,
I can unzip,
and hear you.
through tattered mesh pockets
holding fuzzy drunk photos
too fleeting and fast, your face
I’m taking you with me
The scraps of your smile folded into my sweater
Your voice explodes
As I roll my sunny yellow dress to fit
Perhaps I'll wear your laughter
to a party in some other town
to compliment my flower crown
Sep 28, 2021
Sep 28, 2021 at 12:33 AM UTC
1800
Georgie boy
busch
bud
coors
PBR
they slide down the relaxed throat
of an unrelaxed youth
and these red squiggly lines mark my poems
as if to say
hey,
Harry buddy,
you realize that you make no god **** sense,
right?
and who decides what is and what isn't
nonsensical
All I know is that these crazy ******* yankees
are making me lose my grip on the English stiff upper lip reality
My tenth grade history teacher/JV soccer coach
liked to make songs up about me
There's only one Harry Baxter
true.
only not
there are many of us
the good Harry
The bad Harry
Ugly Harry
and swagger Harry
Violent Harry
and introspective Harry
Romantic and evil
caring and selfish
I get drunk to forget everything
life
money
cares
desires
needs
duty
I write about ten ************* poems a day
not because I'm prolific
or inspired
not because I'm deep
or smart
or romantic
I write because it stems the tide of suicidal thoughts
which barrage my inactive mind
like cannon *****
and I've got great ***** of fire
rushing the pace of every word I spit
but I'm afraid of my own genetic cowardice
From grandfather to father to son
it runs through my veins like people and bulls
I'm drunk tonight
I'll be drunk tomorrow
and what the hell do you care?
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
As I reach into the fridge
I Hear a door slam behind me
It was you, pissy yet somehow smiling
That ****** looking grin you constantly had
You always looked like that
I pull out a beer, and set an extra one out for you
Busch Light, of course
Storming into my kitchen, I can smell your perfume
Worn away with the cigarette smoke emanating from your body
I can practically taste it
I watch you as you lazily lay your jacket on the floor
Or throw it, as normal people would say
You always did that
I started for the bathroom, as I heard another door
Your boyfriend
Or as I knew him, your "best friend"
He pulls the same routine
Smiling his ****** smile
Throwing his jacket
Smelling of Newport Menthols
Just like you, he always did that
Me being myself, I ask how his day was
Ignoring the already stagnant smell of whiskey on his breath
Fine, he says rather aggressively
It always was
I forget about my trip to the bathroom,
and head for the kitchen sink
Washing the dishes that you never got to,
and watched your reflections in the window
I saw smiling, and love, and happiness
I always saw that
You threw your can on the ground
In the disrespecting manor that you treated everything
But I was used to it by now
You tell about how you were going to hang out with friends
You both always did that
I said my goodbyes to both you,
and your friend
As you walked barefoot out of the kitchen
I watch you close the door, and come back into my line of sight
Through the large windows in the front of our house
You exchange a glance
You exchange a touch of hands
And I say nothi9ng as you kiss in the illuminated darkness of the street
I grab my beer, and return back to the kitchen
Because that's what I always did
And that's why you did that
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
Free spirited, opened minded, and an adrenaline ******
you never took no for an answer,
always suggesting
something outrageous to outdo the time before.
You encouraged me to push the envelope
when I begged you to play it safe.
I was sipping my second Shirley Temple when you swallowed
the last mouthful of your twelfth glass Busch.
You spent the night mumbling snide remarks
about the shirt I was wearing to your friends
across the table while I sat there biting my tongue remembering
I still had ink healing from our last "adventure"
a few weeks ago.
Leaving hours later, I helped you
stumble into your apartment and land on the bed.
I slipped out of my blouse and walked
away trying to ignore your comments while my throat burned.
I couldn’t take the accusations.
I hated getting to this point,
yelling at each other from across the room until the sun peaked through
the pane of that little kitchen window.
Talking in circles even though we knew
neither of us were going to win.
This time, I assumed would be like any other, ending in
the innocent, small town girl getting sick
from the constant the back and forth
but you got up.
Walking in my direction, lighting
candles as you went,
creasing my face and pulling me in
you whispered in the voice I hadn’t heard since that first I love you:
I’d rather fight with you than make love with anyone else
and at the end of the day
I realized that was all that mattered.
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 1:44 PM UTC
For all of you so eager to call it quits and throw in the towel on your addiction because everything isn’t “perfect”...here is some food for thought: Lifelong commitment is not what most people think it is. It's not waking up every morning to crack a case and slam a breakfast beer. It's not cuddling in bed until you spill your brew, peacefully, at night. It's not a clean home filled with laughter and ********** everyday. It's someone who steals all the Busch Light. It's slammed shots and a few skunked beers at times. It’s stubbornly disagreeing and giving each other the devils nectar until your hearts heal...and then...THE 12 STEPS! It’s coming home to the same brand, everyday, that you know LOVES and CARES about you in spite of (and because of) your crippling addiction. It's laughing about the one time you accidentally ****** yourself in a Denny’s waiting area. It’s about ***** laundry and unmade beds. It's about helping each other with the hard liquor in life! It's about swallowing the nasty *** chata instead of spitting it out. It's about meeting the cheapest and easiest ****** you can find in Lehigh and sitting down together late to drink afterwards because you BOTH had a crazy day. It's when you have a refrigerator breakdown and your cooler lays with you and holds your beer and tells you everything is going to be okay...and you BELIEVE that cooler. It's about still loving alcohol even though, sometimes, it makes you absolutely text exes that are now worthless skin sacks. Living with alcoholism is not perfect
...sometimes it's hard; but it's amazing and comforting and one of the BEST things you'll ever experience!
Kaitlin Jan Minteer
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 1:23 PM UTC
Lost and never to be found, the thickness of the forest is growing more and more as we venture deeper, not knowing what lies beyond the next busch, rock, shadow. But its the ever glowing brightness from the moons shine that keeps my path right on track. Ive been in this forest for years, beaten and battered by the stroms but through it all I have stayed grounded and rooted to life. I dont know if ill ever find my way out, but for now the sounds and beauty of nature shall keep me on my way.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
Inside the betrodden bunkers, the boys lay.
It's a new day. 6 am sharp they awaken with anticipation.
They rise and they march and they bustle throughout camp.
Where their boots break with stressed step. blackened and soiled.
and their singing ceases with a stony look. They stand straight now.
This order they chose,
and this colony they feed.
For its buzz beckons more than a simple salute.
At a weeks end they bring Busch and burgers and sit under a blanket of stars,
and they tell stories of belly dancers and sandy beaches and starlit skies and those big, stifling water bugs in the defact, and they're all grinning because sal's got the hiccups bad. and oh,
how yesterday that man, that boy, with the pacemaker, took his last breath swimming in the brooke.
they laugh it off.
And Busch's bubbles go down smooth,
and they wrestle and they sing, and they call their girlfriends baby.
and their girlfriends call them silly.
and everyone rolls their eyes.
until that buzz fades
and that sun ascends
and their girlfriends say goodbye.
and so, for now,
their clothes lay stacked of the same order and style.
and their body language is a bit broken and bored and still,
and they stand in solemn line
after line
after line
after line
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 10:35 PM UTC