Find the lighter, use it as a lighthouse on a walk below the wall you watch along the wave-formations. Who Wants a Cold One? a Coors Light ad corrects.. When it comes to your home, the little things matter.. an insurance ad blares.. my computer is infected with 3rd party applications unremovable to my meagre tech-ability.. there is a hero as Joseph Campbell once theorized.. in myself like a sick bastardly virus waiting for moments to prove to me "I AM THE SAVIOR, I AM THE CHRIST, I AM THE WARLORD, MICE, MAN, AND VICE".. the windows of opportunity close, I am left waiting the door

& the elevator.

Thirty-thousand years ago, there was nothing but a breeze.. a viscous breeze across chill-spined pterodactyls.. warm-under-the-jungle-brush tyrannosaurus rex, and to think one day I will be just a legend in bone..
Charlotte said she thinks of death and so did Jen. They sat next to the all-you-can-eat and discussed the inevitable. I was sour and playful with no-will-to-understand, just reminding my hair of breezy summer days of 10, thinking of strangeness, of place I was in.

When it's quiet sometimes, I think of old dreams.. dreams I sunk below drown-level as a child in bed and belief. Both mommy and daddy were arguing in the kitchen, this was 7 or 8.. they argued so often one could hear mom begin to cry sometimes, and dad I could see in minds-eye with a grimace so closed and so creased he was hurt and yet honest.. I did not understand so I hid under-stood-silhouettes, oh adulthood..

once in dream I was in pulsing green graveyard like crayon realism strobe lights, tombstones all-round and faint-buzz of outside and one of those strange balded henchmen of badguy Jafar from Disney's Aladdin came peaking outta nowhere with curled eyebrow and baggy one-thousand-one Arabian nightlives parachute pants, curled toes brown-beige moccasins to.. he let out conniving 'HEUHEE!' and slapped me right-side cheek and I JOLTED up bedwise in real time to feel actual physical sting for a few lingered seconds then the sobs of poor mother outside.. I never remembered a dream so clearly again.. they all come, Pro-Found, and dizzy away after hour or two for rest of eternity or perhaps to Place I Can Visit at Death to Review Every Vision and I wonder... when your life flashes before your eyes and the light is encroaching, scenes of mother, brother, father, son, daughter, best-friend, party, break-up, heartbreak, slip-fall, first-sip, first-drag, last-leg, first-kiss, first-hit, first-game, fear, love,  HATE, wait.. do the Dreams come to? Are they all flesh-ed before your eyes as you pass into Light? Are they brought to direct remembrance as you cross the border with Passport of Gods and a Goddess (and which Picture appears on the Page)..?

I remember the old eczema taking bits of skin to carpets round-town and round-lower-mainland to disgust of friends old and new-- this was era where confidence ate itself in mirrors, the sober reality of ugly-ness chiseling away at my Goodness Attempts.. All That Pointless Pain was no Exception nor a Rule, it just **** Happens every once-and-again to the sound of life farting. I used to miss school for feet so impossible to walk on, pussing and bleeding and staining the sheets, shoe soles, carpets, and soul.. limp thru the hallways of Brooks Secondary feeling like bad flavor additive to multicultural Planet Earth-- sleeping 'til the bell rang drinking coffee singing songs I said '**** the ******* educational system and **** me I'm so flatlined..' someday I felt things would really get better and lucky young me I was right.

A half-decade later, I am 21 and hoping, floating, free in the breeze as the wings I have grown keep on wishing the subsistence down. The girl, whoever-she-might-as-well-be, sits immediately vertical chatting frantically to boy with a bit of a cowlick slouching on-up over a bundle of colored paperwork. It seems late in the season for homework, and assume they may have some affiliation with a crazy-hep computer design group in the tradition of Nouevau Silicon Valley.... I sit at my laptop, inching a word a million cubic millimeters closer to God or Divinity or Crescendo or A Bunch More ******* You'll End Up Ignoring---

It's a sunny day, the rain having slathered-off into obscurity somewhere with the Monsoons when the Sun gave the Moon a Soft Slap and the poor purity white-kid went off whimpering, bleeding nose-- I sat, the other night, playing another Grand Strategy game as Tom divided his time between a vaulted and damaged lover, his labor, and his life (friends, food, video-games, vice)... Chai, old Chai the Thai Guy mentioned past his nose in previous iterations of Depictions sat and described his pins-and-needles upset at his bosses at one his three many jobs.. desperately firing text-messages into receiving-space-panel and reflect and back unto Tom's smartphone dash asking him to order a six-pack from a local delivery service cuz his adrenal was giving him heartpain with hurt, and Tom being Busy as All-Ways Tom Is wasn't able to decipher the scramble in-time to make contact before closure of the liquor stores.. poor not-so-poor Chai at first felt castrated at realization he would miss the 11 PM dot-time, but didn't mind as he rendezvoused with Tom and I at Willows Beach where Tom reminded him of a whiskey he'd bought sitting counter-wise at his place.. we kissed a few Mary Janes rightsideup, dragging our butts in the sand to discuss what was wrong (each of us had a problem that night, save for perhaps a less-vocal Tom, I describing my annoyance that a lazy consensus had erupted in my sorry-hometown between my sorta-friends and friends-of-friends that my writing and sharing my writing was arrogant and I an arrogant *** for sharing and I just confounded that they would find my passions so trivial-- perhaps jealousy, perhaps complacency and judgement-for-lack-of-anything-better-to-do and ah **** em all if they think like that, I'll write and be the arrogant me they think I am and share 'til I'm blue in the face and dead perhaps for outspoken intellectualism in their autocratic pointless-waste worldviews.. sad that I dislike them only on the basis they disliked me first..)

I had planned to stay late and leave early-morn (5 or 6 AM) to catch a first-off morning bus back home and sleep, hoping for most part to avoid the shattered-***-mess of a home I was living in.
About 2 days ago, give or take, a water-line for the laundry machine had erupted to soak our entirely-carpeted basement suite, forcing the poor new landlord (a sweetheart of a man named Ron having just taken possession of the house from previous owner on May 1st and, it seems, left 'holding the bag' as they'd call it in day-trading-investment-lingo) to tear out the entirely-soaked carpet and replace it with sensible laminate flooring and rendering the entire suite virtually unlivable for indefinite-few-days and so for me work and friends and especially writing become a welcome reprieve to I, a first world Refu-Jeez.. us, so terribly-off I sip a latte near sunny panorama windows-so-clear-they're-not-there overlooking the crosses of Yates and Blanshard with European church of Gothic architectural style poking heedlessly into empty-open blue.. ironically and strangely there is a liquor store quite literally right next door, and's one I shop at often for its decent prices (God is Dead or Just Drinking to Cope with Sartre and Kierkegaard's Ultimate Thesis) (Kierkegaard especially '*** Kierkegaard seems a good and long friend of God the Almighty) (...I talk with such Judaeo-Christian Catholic rhetoric it never ceases to amaze myself as it bleeds to page..) (stranger thing is, tho, there is no beginning, no middle, no end.. you read or you are bored and either/or is just fine..)

There is some hypothesized crescendo-bliss Tech Singularity on the way in the try-dition of Ray Kurzweil and William Burroughs.. Oscar Wilde to.. (see The Soul of Man Under Socialism in essay-collect book De Profundis).. one day we will all be eternal happiness expressed in song and dance and LED erected-projections of Imperfect Universe (Our Imperfect Earth) with lives stuck on infinite repeat.. our idea of Paradise.. and for those with ability to remain rushed to cortisol (stress-the-best hormone) it will be Hell on Earth, so DRAB and THE SAME all the TIME and it's READ and it's WRITE and it's RIGHT.. the world runs faster with every passing day so desperate to discover the Globe is Flat so we can Hop Off the Other Side into what one might assume to be The Better Place.. elusively picking-up speed thinking 'closer now definitely closer now' unaware (or, secretly aware and unwilling to admit for what will one do when one cannot run?) they are Running in Circles Over and Over and Over and Over and Over Again... cannot take the hint in the fact the Pacific (same Pacific) has been crossed a hugeillion times, nor the same McDonald's in the Azores of Atlantic Portugal is the Same ******* McDonald's stopped-thru on the then-trillionth time last year... and all whilst the International Space Station remains muted up-above crossing 'round and 'round 'til the Jehovah'n Day of Judgement (Chris Hadfield now below with advice for how to run a little faster even blinded in one eye..) then there are the dying Prophets Predicting Industrial Collapse who preach upon the Mount of Internet Sinai Eternal and state "the world is now unsalvageable and we are all about to die.. if ever you wished to find Buddhistic Nirvanic Peace, now is the time so start meditating and imagine Death as New Life and Geopolitics as Game".. forever and ever and ever and ever.

It is only natural to find existence to be 'weird..' layered with Who's That's and giant What The ***** everywhichway you turn.. did it start in a Big Bang, will it end in a Big Crunch, Big Freeze, Big Bang.. ? all questions once ignored for certain ignorance and resurrected as questions concerning the Nature of the What The ***** (also known as 'Science').. and if it did start in a Big Bang, did I start in a Big Bang..? and if it does end in a Big Crunch, will I end in a Big Crunch..? am I a sudden flash of REAL in a Universe that isn't me..? or am I an entire Universe.. perhaps even more than that...? the questions pulse in youth like bad words or bullets. I once stayed up all-night thinking of infinity with my head soaring space-wise forever and ever and ever and I stopped in sudden panic thinking: I could lie here up all night and all day 'til the towered age of 37 (I was 14 at the time) and still be no further on the Universal Map than from thumb-tip-middle to thumb-nail so I wrapped up the attempt with a mix of fear and incredulity, went to school next-day exhausted and tried to explain it all to friends.. they got it, I suppose, but we were all 14 and played basketball instead (I imagined infinite-spinning-basketball on thumb of Michael Jordan).

It's always best describing life in form of Disembodied Poetics.. sure some Philistines won't understand '*** their minds are made of Clockwork, Digits, and Blockthought.. but the general psychic underly implied in all with human faculty will ring-a-ding-ding! and remember all such ancient thoughts and feels as forgotten as a child, locked away until the Spirit rose-up from a rosey thorn prickle to flower straight-up into a Rose! or so I hope as a one-of-many writers-- all of which will write so-as to speak on your behalf.. all floaty and marking a purpose.

Red wine and Coors Light
Reminds me of a time
Where happiness was scarce and unknown
A time where in a group I still felt alone
Empty cans and bottles scattered our floor
Bitter words, sour smell added to the wicked allure
Yells and fists became a everyday routine
Tears hidden as I choked on my screams
Mama favored the wine the way it helped relive her pain
He favored beer the way it made reality fade
I suppose sometimes the haze may help to unwind
As long as you don't abuse it all the time
Some just can't stop when they feel the buzz, can't resist the pull
But continue to drink even when full
My own worse enemy were my little feet and puny hands
Not strong enough to save her from that wicked man
So small and unable to help
Can't imagine the pain I felt
Grew strong and escaped the darkness and pain
Left her there with the man who she refused to blame
If you ever loved me
You'd set the devil free
But she couldn't
My heart knew she wouldn't
Stayed with him for years
Through all the tears
Always thinking of his happiness, never mine
That's what I remember when I see red wine and coors light

Well I like the taste of Whiskey, but today it was just a disguise.
The reason I’ve been drinking, Is because she said goodbye.
She turned away from me and she walked right straight to him.
So I called up my 3 amigos Johnny, Jack and Jim.

Chorus
Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam,
Whenever I need them, they’re here for me,
They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears,
And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers.
So I don’t drink Bud, Miller or Coors light,
I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right.

So I got in my truck and headed for the creek
Pulled out my pole and I started a streak
15 bass and a couple of brim
Then I started thinking about her and him

Her in his arms in the back of the truck
I started damning all of my luck
Walked to the yeti and popped open the top
Nothing in there that would make it stop
Drove to the house and opened the door
Those three bottles where there on the floor.

Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam,
Whenever I need them, they’re here for me,
They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears,
And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers.
So I don’t drink bud, miller or Coors light
I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right.

Woke up in the morning with the light creeping in
Sitting in the chair right where I had been
Phone started ringing; my head was pitching a fit
Recognized the number, so I answered it

She said she was sorry and that she had been wrong
She started crying, saying she wasn’t strong
I’d heard enough, I was trying to mend
I told her no, goodbye, so I pressed end

Sat back down, phone ringing again
Decided to spend some more time with my men
Reached on down picked em up off the floor
One more time I wouldn’t need her no more

Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam,
Whenever I need them, they’re here for me,
They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears,
And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers.
So I don’t drink bud, miller or Coors light
I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right.

the compensation for my competence?
     a can of Coors occasionally crowned
with sticky notes instruction-filled and dense,
     with worn old shoe string thick and tightly bound,
a brief hurrah before a list to do,
if time were air, with duty i'd turn blue,
     a present given as a false pretense,
  
his recompense? a crushed Coors can atop
     the boss' desk, a drop spilled on the wood,
a single sticky note stuck to the drop,
     "your list of things to do, i could, I should...
yet reach up to that single book, top shelf!"
("Learn How to Fix Your Life--Do It Yourself!")
     soon management will purge all its dead wood,

and driftwood i will be among the planks,
     and crates expelled above board for to stay
afloat, the company in all its ranks,
     will learn that without wood the boat will stray
not only from its sure intended course,
but from the surface to the floor of course,
     to join the tiger shark and manta ray,

soon supervisors, managers and such
     will join department heads, vice presidents,
chief officers valued, appraised worth much,
     thrown overboard to chase those dividends,
that sink so silently to ocean floor,
where there exists no air lock's safety door,
     when futures join the pasts through these presents,

my recompense for knowing when to quit?
     a can of Coors occasionally crowned
with smiling lips and laughing breath of wit,
     my happy feet in new shoes leather-bound,
a new ship where appreciation rings
the ship bells of respect on many things,
     smooth sailing through safe seas without a ground.

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

Sitting around stories told
Talking about days of old
Hunting, fishing and good times
Busting bottles. Stealing signs
Starry night is made of gold

Warm Campfires and Coors lite
Makes for a fabulous night
Crispy Fritos and bean dip
Great ideas and good tips
All relaxed, no ones up tight

Pack of coyotes begin to sing
Who knows what the dark night might bring
My wife gives me a sly wink
Mountains blue, I get a drink
feel just like a sitting king

Shining stars in the night sky
Satellites that fast fly by
Meteorites trailing fast
They just never ever last
Hell of a time that's no lie

Throw me out of a moving car
After a long night at the bar, come on
Dangle myself out a speeding car
Death is near but I’m too far gone

Let’s have a good time
We can never die
Come on

Get me in to the car
To the moon and past the stars
Come on
Pull away in a stolen car
I forget how did this all start?

Go for a joy ride
This is the good life come on

Once upon a time
Under the moonlight
On a summers night
She was being real shy
And then she took a bite

And her eyes met mine
Were skating on thin ice
We higher than a kite
No such thing as a good bye

Let’s go for a ride
It’s a joy ride
Let’s enjoy tonight
Like it’s the end of our lives
Come on

You aren't quite sure why this mediocre movie is so funny
but **** it Adam ******* is on form
look he's doing the thing with the voice
I want ice cream. Does anybody else really want ice cream?
my throat is made of desert sand
dessert* sand
that's funny
oh yeah OJ thanks
now pass me the rig. the song is changing and we need some new energy
I just want to chill and vibe
the ceiling fan hasn't been dusted in... oh I don't know, a year?
and just maybe it will come crashing down upon us
a black mess of ash, soot, and dust
and maybe that would be pretty funny
and maybe I'd geek out
and maybe I wouldn't
who cares? the next episode of Trailer Park Boys is about to start
and the sun is about ninety degrees from setting

Night now
and moonlight flows as adrenaline
rushing and flooding the parts of our brain
which go
"well **** this could be fun"
a recipe for a good night goes like this:
five cans of beer, pbr or bud light
maybe coors
some of those girly limearitas
because **** it they are yummy and get the job done
smoke break
make it three in a row
working on the chain gang of suicidals
okay now break open the good potion
whiskey *** gin ***** whatever sinks your boat
but make sure to consume in large damnation seeking swallows
and remember men only chase with high fives
who even high fives anymore?
now listen the **** up
because this next part is important
never. I repeat never smoke within three hours of the night
that is unless you want to get trapped in the party limbo
of hanging out in the kitchen, by the fridge
with the two only people you know in the entire joint
nobody want's to **** the guy eating pizza and playing with the cat in the corner
while you're there - be sure to drink as much free liquor as possible
oh me? I'm an exchange student from England. Show me what American college life is like? Sure I'll quote some Harry Potter. Sure I will take that shot. Oh your roommate is not home? Interesting.
because we all know that *** brings validation, and validation is the biggest drug of all
wake up the next morning and mumble something about a hangover and how much fun last night was
can I get your number? I'll text you my life story in emoticon format sometime.

Back in the filthy apartment
your bed stained with ash, sweat, and God knows what looks awfully inviting.
sleep an hour or two
get up feeling less ******
put on a *** of coffee
liquid ******* to set your veins running with productive fire
and then the shakes come
smoke a few cigarettes if you have any left
if not, the pick market is just a block away
and the sun is shining
okay now get into your bath robe and sweat pants
smoke yourself a fat GB
you deserve it
shake off the grime and pseudo-glory of night before
in a couple of hours
it's all going to start again

the one little bee bit me.

pit me up

against my me.



tea. for three. now serves only me.

for thee, has been a destroyer to my kind handles and controls



you drank coors.

i smiled as a child .




for reasons coldy draw that in my childish state I saw

that star that told me such a nursery rhyme

and said that if i should give it time,

some will would have me find

that stories make life chime


and
together in ******* cohesion
with knotted roots of profusion
and exstactic empathofusion moving.

and

the story was you. with your coors.

twinkle said the star and I hungered and sang through all time
to hear such another nursery rhyme
only to get the buckled pang

from my empty state of mind.

the magic of advertisement...
it's not like i would drink the beer being
advertißed...
beer sure... but what's being sold?

i could be drinking a really expensive
whiskey... an irish whiskey...
but... i'm no ******* connoisseur...
give me the base-bust of the cheap ****...
and i'll rap you the drunk's
rhapsody...

        closet skeleton and king rat
that i am... not sycophancy prone...
the bass! the horns!
and we have, 'ere... something better than any
thelonious monk's big band jazz:
& orchestra...
it worked pretty well with the quintet
and the quartet...
jazz would never be so limited
as the power-3 of guitar, bass and drums...
you need the piano at some point...
and if not the horn taking front-stage...
because saxophone jazz is more
difficult that you'd be led to believe...

i mean:
i can stomach *******' brew more than
i will ever entertain: a love supreme...

the first one was a hit: to begin with...
the syllables of the three prince charming(s)
the bud frog,
the wise frog,
the err frog...

wiseguys: say ooh la la... say so... c'mon
c'mon...

coupon brigade! the adversts didn't want me
to buy the beer...
sooner or later i'd be glugging down a kosher's
goat slit of: the cider bottle turned up...
and gravity: did what gravity did best...
making the equal playing field:
no better acorn from the bad tree...
still the plateau of the impeding fall...

why would i buy more...
budweiser? they brew... making *******
from what the europeans use
to compensate the bland rye or wheat...
they use hops...
not from rice we were ever to be born...
but the advert cleaved into my like a mantis...
perhaps not because of the song...
but the frogs of the three syllables:
bud-wise-err...

  ****** rice... bleach and other detergent
fermentor *****-whips of beijing...
scared city and... believe it or not...
the vatican library was treated as such...
before the nag hammadi library...
was a chimera doberman and rottweiler let
loose... without anyone minding...

henry westons' cider... my... point of docking
to: two solid feet about to make a tango
into a patchwork of a waffle....

i could drink really expensive alcohol...
i could... to tease the buds of: spring without spring...
but... i just care about drink
and in that: i bring spring with me!
because i'm quiet fond of the drunk qui: une...
je and moi...
i drink and the imaginary drum-kit comes
out as i wait to: pressure listening to a beat
with my idle hands that are still waiting
for the devil to wake up from a slumber
as i click-click-and-wait-for-maggot-bait...
it's no piano: this alphabet of:
shouldn't we blind-teach the alphabet
as not: a b c d e f g h i...
and more q w e r t y u i o p...
and how: if you're not going to become
a juggling schizoid bilingual...
you need one tongue to speak...
two eyes to see and read...
and, most effectively: two hands to write?
since we've abandoned the concept
of hand-writing?

the sinkin sensation of throwing a stone into a lake;
breaking the mirror -
unlike throwing a stone into a river:
completely uninterrupted -
or a the sea -
faking faking faking: if only it was about
putting on clown make-up...

the sensation of throwing a stone into a lake
with it skimming / skipping before the anchor moment
of the SINKing...
while you remained shackled to the shore...
and the sand doesn't eat you up...
the forever standing wishing to fall...
the stone the heart... if only it was that easy...
the labyrinth the straitjacket of the mind
grieving... what's to be expected:
mostly it isn't...

i won't be drinking the beer...
god forbid...
once upon a time it was... down to...
the muscles from brussels...
jean-claude van ****... ****: van damme...
salute to: coors light...
the magic of movies is...
well... long gone... when the editorial process
took over with its epileptic editing
of scenes - multitasking...
what of the ol' movies and the panoramic
stage: lasting at least a minute...
before the horses... came into contact
with cowboy hats, the reins and stirrups!

british *** bonanza on: ****** ibiza...
or some other island in the mediterranean:
i was never a part of...
i could be drinking expensive *****...
and... love the taste...
but i'm more of a co-op whiskey brand
leech... the threshold is passed
and i forget inhibited sober moi...
and the price is... pointless minding
the same bass beginning...
i quiet like the drunk me -
no amount of anorexic champagne will
bother me: to...
do whatever is not necessary...

a twist then...
the current song chosen by the coors light
advert?
swimming in snow? no jean-claude van damme?

FooR x Majestic x Dread MC - Fresh (Official Video)...
will i be buying some coors light beer?
when the wiseguys came out to support
the graeae frogs: the syllables bud-wise-err...
did i buy more budweiser?
i was a teen... i probably did...
but then... i read the label...
you're making ***** from rice and not
a note of hops?
***** ching and changer blood bribe...

if i'm not going to buy the beer...
because...
eh... 18.66 stones on 6ft2... doesn't look that
much walrus... as...
a fresh cucumber chinese soup that all i've eaten today...
the better excuse is: thick bones...
but alcohol is... or becomes:
lazy muscle... it's bloat: but it's not blubber...
fat...

apparently 18K people know this reference point...
me buying budweiser or coors light is like
me buying fat-free yogurt...
not going to happen...
thank god whiskey is not supposed to be
meddled with "light" alternatives...

to have found oneself curating for the most
fickle crowd - happily donning the solo project...
to drink without a self to drag along...
to "later mention":
to be a shadow boxer or a stair-chaser on
all fours...
to be a meddling cat owner...
whatever the name is deserved...
the tombstone silence: an expansion of
a yet to be written epitaph by a stranger...
i imagine... and there have been several
graveyards i've visited...
finding a grave with an epitaph...
is a bit like finding a unicorn...
then again... there was a nietzsche and his
book of aphorisms...
which probably exhausted the chance
for a many a people to gravestone gravity their
past and currency of a present "now"...
with a escape from both names
and dates of birth and blessed death-day...
an epitaph...
but not unless you are on a diet
of someone else's maxims...
truths that probably never come into a fruition...
as: foremostly observed... too...
and secondly... in concordance of agreed to.

the empties
of the week
hold guard over my room.
they stand
like brave sentinels
and we watch the sun rise together.
bottles, cans, flasks, drams
these are my friends,
the empties
of the week.
sunlight burns
off of tinted brown glass
and i am alone,
except these are my friends,
the empties
of the week.

Pabst (7)
Coors (4)
Magic Hat (12)
Sierra Nevada (6)
Heineken (8)

Jack Daniel's (3)
Tanqueray (2)
Jameson (6)
Crown Royal (2)
Wild Turkey (5)

Hunting dove down on the backroad
way on back only the rancher knows
he doesn’t care so we wait for flight
12 gauges ready to start our plight

Ring necks, white wings, and mourning’s are game
chichi birds make us swing all the same
listening for the whistle and the beat of the wing
one of us today, will win the brass ring

Limiting out is what we’re hoping for
but if not, you couldn’t hope for more
outside with friends and family alike
kids getting bored, gone on a hike

Men at the truck with cold Coors Light
relaxing outdoors, no one’s uptight
suns getting low, they are about to fly
here they come, hear the wings sigh

Draw a bead and a lead and fire away
one bird down, hope there’s more we pray
birds on the tailgate at the end of fight
get em’ all clean before the black of the night.

Billowed and pasted, rollicked and wasted,
the night takes hold and Samantha, you remember her,
she's smoking again. This is her last pack though.
Drinks poured. Drinks spilled. Kate and I are talking
like people with scheduled late afternoon love affairs. There's
a car alarm going off in the distance. I love this blouse. Is it new?
No. It looks new. I love your perfume. You aren't wearing any?
Must be a natural—and the first to arrive at the party, Chris and
Evan, they're the first to leave, and we listen intently as one, or maybe both, tumble down the stairs. There should be waivers for second floor
apartment parties. Kate, you deserve so—I know. I know. You've got this light. Jesus. I'm just saying. Is it radiant? Yes, it's radiant. And they're lighting their drinks on fire now in the kitchen, some concoction of amaretto and 151 and a kickback of Coors. The flames reflect in their eyes, their cheeks a soft amber, and most of them are smiling, not sincerely, but when was the last time you could give yourself over completely to joy? There's a siren in the distance. Someone says they're coming for us. I'm going to the bathroom. Do you need help? And there's this ceiling fan with LCD Christmas bulbs strung around the blades. A myriad of claustrophobic yellows and whites and blues. Have you seen that video of the ****** having a baby? And he brings it up on his phone. Someone says, Oh my god I love this song from the bathroom. I hadn't noticed the music before now. Drink this. What is it? You'll see. And Samantha she says she's got to step outside for a second. And someone drops a hookah coal on the beige carpet. There goes the deposit. There's incense. There's a Scentsy. There's Febreeze being sprayed liberally. Can you drive? Can you? Do you want to? You know? I've ate a lot today. The songs keep getting skipped. Parquet Courts, Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, Chvrches, Miley Cyrus—wait, wait put on some SWIFTY. We're going to fire up in my closet if you want to join. It's a walk-in. Evan's back now. He kicks a mirrorball across the kitchen tile with Chris, who's also back now. Where's Samantha? She's smoking. She shouldn't be alone. You remember last—That won't happen again. I'm just saying. Well, you can stop saying. Sirens again. Closer. We're in the walk-in. Kate tugs on my sleeve. I take a pull off the bronze pinch hitter. Do little circles with my head. ****, she says. What? It all starts fading out, the rush of dark, the rush of light. Someone says trash can. Sirens. I'm just trying to—Shut up. I'm just trying to—Shut up.

The box of fire-starters I had found in the back closet
seemed very simple in their use.
Simply turn the curved side down
and apply a flame.

We really wanted a fire.
Not only were we in need of that comforting presence,
but the spectacular show of  trees and mountains
had disappeared with the sun
and the images of windy lake ripples, although profound,
seemed already years in the past.
We had the night to look forward to,
and our enthusiasm for the stars
would be exercised by our frequent excursions
to **** down some cigarettes out in the parking lot.
So it was decided,
this fire would be our inside entertainment for the evening.

The little black bic seemed a bit inadequate,
but the situation was soon remedied
by the discovery of a larger and quite adequate butane torch.
Now we are in business.
Despite the new firepower
only a small flame caught.

After spending a winter without heat,
in a home that hemorrhaged warmth,
I had become proficient in starting fires
with wet logs and numb fingers,
leaving me with a tendency to add too much fuel.

The little flame was adorable.
it wobbled back and forth on the flat side of the fire starter,
reaching up towards yesterday’s paper
and the cardboard case of Coors from last night.
I felt like a proud parent when it’s wispy tendrils
finally got a hold of the remnants of the pasts dubious reminders.

I’d spent my youth in that one room cabin.
Weekends I would roam the mountains
and dig deep holes in the snow to hide in.
Unfortunately, due to a small oversight,
I had never properly learned quite the trick
for opening up the flue.
I assumed, quite wrongly, that the wee bit of airflow from the fireplace
insinuated proper ventilation for the impending combustion.

A fire alarm
is one of the most panic inducing sounds.
We tried desperately to knock the flue open
praying that the growing fire would have room to escape
and save us from the dismal fate
of burning down my families favorite weekend getaway.

Mere moments after admiring the fragile
and fleeting existence of my little flame that could,
I drenched a towel in the sink
and smothered it out
before any more damage could be done
(which really only consisted of wet ash).

We spent the rest of the night smoking cigarettes,
getting high in the floodlights
and twitching with the panic induced paranoia
the aborted fire left in our chests.

And later, once I had gone back to the real world,
I learned that the flue lever had to move,
not left and right,
but up and down to open and close.

When I turned sixteen, I brought a girl home drunk and stumbling
A day later, I was interviewed by the government criminal investigation
Two months later, she was disowned by her parents
Last I heard, she's at a rehab in Florida

It's been a long time since I've seen her.

When I was fourteen, I hid cigarettes in my backpack, and lighters in my wallet
Used to sit in the middle of a basketball court and watch my stress float away in a noxious grey cloud
I stashed my twelve dollar pack of coors in a bush behind the half-wall

It's been a long time since I've seen those.

I was thirteen when I found a papercutter in the drawer of the art room.
Took it home with me, fell asleep to the sound of it scathing in and out of its sheath
I once got so frustrated I wanted to slice my throat with it
I threw it out the window

It's been a long time since I've seen it.

When I was fifteen, I went out with friends and got wasted on chocolate liquor
Two weeks later, *****
the day after, tequila
and the week before, strawberry daiquiri
I don't remember much.

It's been a long time since I've done that.

When I was thirteen, I wrote poetry to sort out my emotions

It's been a long time since I've done that...

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 ******* 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?

She’s got her
Legs wrapped around
My thighs
Like blood-filled vines.

She pushes my ******
In and out.

Kisses
Me
hard,
like she wants
To bite off my jaw.

“sometimes I hate you,
Really,
Sometimes I love you,
but not as much
As I hate you.”

she says.

Before,
The first time,
When *** was just a game
And we were kids
Who didn’t know which hole
Was which,
it was good.

Now it’s a witch’s brew.

When I look into her eyes
She spews poison,
Like it’s her passion.

And her mouth won’t stop
Exploding, because
She talks in artillery
And thinks of me
In games and warfare.

How did we get here?

Was it something
I said,

probably what

I did.



It was so dark
And cold the night
**** went downhill.

And there was no one out
It almost felt safe.

Nothing left but intimacy
a hungry phallus
And drunk love
for the tired young man

*******

his girl

In the back of his Camry.

He was Tired
already, ready to die,
Too much romanticism in a
165 pound kid.



He tried to maneuver himself
So that she sat on his ****
and he could check the rearview
For creepers,
and at the worst,

Cops.

but all he could see

In the mirror

Was her going

Up

And

Down:

Naked; Beautiful.

Her Brown skin burned

against his.

Her *** looked like
It was going to fall off
She was going so fast.

Her black eyes punctured

through him like she was taking
core samples.

She was

going to take everything

and leave nothing behind.



Wiggling like broken
Cogs, he and her scrambled
As the lights flashed
Blue and red
And he scrambled
To pull his **** out of her,
as he
Came, and some got
On his legs
And even in her *****.

And for a moment

He feared and hoped
He would be a father,

A proper father.



The cop shined
His light, and tapped the window.
She snapped her bra On
underneath her shirt.

The boy zipped his pants up
like he had a gun.

The cop really thought he had one.

the cop backed away

and started yelling
“GET OUT OF THE CAR!”

The boy didn’t say anything,

He just sat there.

The girl was crying silently.

The cop was still yelling.
“GET OUT OF THE CAR,NOW!”

He just sat there.

The cop was still yelling.

The girl was
Still
Crying,
Silently.

“DO YOU HEAR ME? GET OUT OF THE ******* CAR!”

He hops out.

The cop wrestles him to the ground.

There’s broken Coors bottles down there,
And cigarette butts.

Some left-over
Beer gets in his nose
And he inhales a *** of asphalt and alcohol.

The cop is pushing his face into the ground,
It feels like a car crash.

The boy feels like his nose
Is about to break,
Little blood vessels
Burst as red streamers
come out of both holes
And drip onto the refuse.

He can barely breathe.

Each breath is full of more blood
Than left-over beer.

He can taste the iron in his
Throat.

That was once a good drink
And a good smoke.

Now it’s nothing.

Now nothing is finally nothing.



The cuffs snap
On cold,
colder
Than the way his body
Felt when he saw those blues
And reds.


She remains in the car,
Like a woman in confession.
Her penance will
Be over shortly.

She will be taken home,
and her parents
Will forgive her.



But the boy will not be fed.
The cop will forget.
And the girl will sleep
As silently as a knife
In a drawer.

This is how it ends.
This is where I am
When she has her legs
Wrapped around me.

I met this girl at the bus top across from ironhouse condiminums on west broadstreet, and we started talking and I took the wrong bus just to talk to her. I didn’t even have the right amount of change to give to the bus driver. I needed $1.50 and I was thirty-five cents short. So I walked up the asile and asked the cute girl with raybands and lavish brunette hair if she had some change. She smiled and gave me a quarter and a dime. Excellent, I’m in. After I gave the bus driver the bus fair, I leaned back in a chair and I talked to her about literature, writing, reading, poetry. Her name was Anna and her favorite book happened to be “Catcher and The Rye,” she had stacks of notebooks from grade school until now, and she journaled each day in the morning.

We stopped at Willow Lawn and I said: bye. I recommended to her some novels and I wrote down my email on a ripped out pocket book journal page. I passsed it to her, saw her hand close over the note. And then, as I got off the bus, noticed she crumpled up the note.

Later on, I came across a free sandwich, some bowls, a coors light, and a deep tissue massage (my friend is a massage therapist in training; half black; half white; #winning). So imagine being twisted and getting a deep tissue massage with creamy oil lotion. She had this cushioney tan bed to lay down on and relax.

The two girls Rachel and Rachael sang with perfect pitches these great lyrics. We smoked sticky icky *** from a bowl and a plastic orange ****. I pulled up on the carbueretor and vacummed the mushroom cloud of smoke into my lungs, sending radioactive pleasure into my body. A bowl and stem apparatus. Mouth piece. A water pipe or a **** was smokey jazz brass saxophone. The black gas washed by murky water and condensed icecubes sent me spiraling down.

So, I ended up riding on the GRTC bus, smacked sauce, and I wrote all these great ideas, and weird *** descriptions of the bus interior. Went home, changed clothes, swag black VCU shades with neon yellow sides, and a fresh Kanye West Bear shirt with Japanese eyes and shutter sunglasses. I walked down Shafer street and came up to the compass and Hibbs hall. Outside there was a crowd of people freestyle battling, and I enterered the contest. I became a compeitior and I was the challenger, there was no champion yet. I won one round, lost a round, and then went O.T. sudden death overtime. The whole time I was still high, I was carrying around a VCU Cary Street Gym aluminum water bottle with a black insulated sleeve. So I ended up losing, my friend tapped my shoulder and I said whatup and we walked to subway, and I got a foot long Buffalo Chicken sandwich.

We went to his friend’s townhouse on Main and North Harrison Street. I drank a cup of Pineapple and Rasberry Burnetts *****. We went down Cary street, and took a right on Pine Street and then we went to this Delta Chi Fraternity House. There was a kalidescope discoball with rainbow lights. A bar serving jungle juice from an orange gatorade water cooler. I silded my way into the dance floor and turned around and say this girl who I knew. She was someone I taught tennis to when I was an instructor in high school. Needless to say she got extremely attractive. So I was dumbstruck and trying to process all this **** in my mind, and I told her straight up, “Aiight we’re dancing.” And wow. I taught her to stroke the ball well from the tennis lessons. She wore these pink ******* bunny ears and a white dove cardigan and a black halter top, with a dark mini skirt.

Brownwood, Texas is the place
Where we go to give game chase
Deer, Turkey, Dove or Quail
That’s where we track them on the trail
From a ground blind or a tree
This is where we feel most free

Drinking whiskey by firelight
Or sometimes it’s Cold Coors Lite

Hot, Cold, wind or rain, we don’t care
To fill our tag is our prayer
Rifle, Shot gun or Bow
To fill our freezer, with, bird, buck or doe

Sometimes we go just to camp
In the morning it is damp
Horse licking dew off the tent
Sometimes this is how night is spent

Flashing lights and UFO’s
No one believes us but we know
Taking Picture’s in Bluebonnets in spring
Lots of Stories about everything

Driving across condemned bridges
Chasing Deer across Fences
Busting bottles on the Sign
Driving through the River that winds

Multiple Jeeps, wheelers, Trucks of all Kinds
But Polaris Ranger is head of the line
When it comes to getting around
Smoothest ride on the ground

Kids, chase rabbits, and lizards galore
Collecting bones, climbing trees and more
20 years on this lease
Sometimes it is good for Peace

Of the soul and of the mind
A great place to escape the grind
Miles, Years, Family and Friends
It has paid in dividends

I'm sitting here,
at my regular table
and in through the door,
waddles a stream of gluttony
bodies like melting planets
and a look which falls somewhere
between pride and entitlement
is plastered on their sweaty bovine faces
they come into an area
graze while the grass is good
and slowly meander elsewhere
chewing the cud the whole while
like an old trail hand
chews a thick *** of tobacco
these people
who don't know the meaning
of living a lean life
what do they do?
besides propagating fast food franchises
and big and tall clothing stores
what do they do?
they sit in their cubicles doing the same
mindless
mundane
pointless
task for eight hours
with lunch and breaks
and then they drag themselves back home
to the herd
and sit down in their puffy couches
in front of the T.V.
with a microwaved meal
staining their beat up wife beaters
before they fall asleep
on the couch
their mouths propped open
drooling
with a still half full
can of coors light
balanced precariously
between their cottage cheese thighs

He wore a wife beater.
Which hung on him more like a to do list-
Than his clothing choice for the day.
His choice of beverage of the night was Coors Light.
Twenty four of them.
Although it would be hard to argue that something else would have been in his hand
Had it too been on sale at 2 for $20.
His math skills were heightened on Fridays.
On the weekend he was somewhat of a savant.
Dividing dollars by can volume to determine.
His most frugal choice.
As he moseyed to his car,
Hips struggling to hold his
Tattered sweatpants,
One wondered whether it too ran on alcohol.

on sunday mornings we eat frozen waffles and
wash our faces with stale coors light and the tears
of our mamas that we kept in plastic water bottles from
the time when they cried cause their babies were leaving
for the first time and we wait and we wait for the day to be
over so that we can feel like we’re alive again.
pray for us. pray for sunshine. pray for freedom.

-d.k.

THE ALLAN FAMILY STORY, BRIAN’S A YOUNG DUDE



YOUNG DUDES ARE PEOPLE WHO GO TO NIGHTCLUBS AND PARTY

AND THEY HAVE A LOT OF FUN, YEAH, THEY ARE CLASSED AS YOUNG ADULTS

BUT I PREFER TO CALL TWEENS KIDS, BACK IN THOSE DAYS, AND AS SOON

AS THEY TURNED 13 AND INTO *** AND MUSIC, THEY ARE YOUNG DUDES

AND THEN THEY STAY YOUNG DUDES, TILL THEY ARE 25, BUT SOMETIMES

IT NEEDS TO GET OUT THERE, YOU SEE, MY FAMILY BECAUSE

NO I DON’T TAKE DRUGS, BUT I LIKE TO PARTY, YOUNG DUDE BEHAVIOUR

I LIKE TO LISTEN TO PROPER MUSIC, YOUNG DUDE BEHAVIOUR

GOING ON THE COMPUTER, TO PLAY MUSIC YOUNG DUDE BEHAVIOUR

BUT COMPUTER GAMES IS FOR THE KIDS, I KNOW KIDS ARE YOUNGER THAN ME

BUT I ALWAYS SAY A YOUNG DUDE WILL GO OUT AND PARTY HARDY

YA KNOW, I HATE BEING TREATED LIKE A KID, CAUSE I LIKE HEAVY METAL

I HATE BEING TREATED LIKE AN OLDIE EITHER, ONLY BECAUSE, I AM NOT OLD

BUT I HATE WHEN PEOPLE CONTRIDICT ME

MY VERSION OF A YOUNG DUDE IS BETTER, BECAUSE THEY DO PLAY MUSIC

AND THEY DO, GO OUT TO PARTY, IN NIGHTCLUBS

I THOUGHT MY MATES AND MY BROTHER AND DAD UNDERSTOOD THIS

I THINK LOOKING AND THINKING LIKE A YOUNG DUDE IS GOOD FOR ANY MIDDLEAGED PERSON

I DON’T WANT TO BE TREATED LIKE AN OLD FOGIE WHO WANTS TO DIE

I AM A YOUNG DUDE, AND I KNOW THE KIDS ARE SAYING THEY ARE YOUNG

WELL, YES, I NEED TO EXPLAIN MY VERSION OF A YOUNG DUDE

I THOUGHT PEOPLE KNEW WHAT I MEANT WHEN I SAID I WAS A YOUNG DUDE

BUT I MAKES ME ANGRY, I WANT TO LISTEN TO THE COORS

I WANT TO LISTEN TO HEAVY METAL, LIKE A REAL YOUNG DUDE

I DON’T WANT DAD TELLING ME TO BE A KID, NEH I WILL SAY

I LIKE WHAT I AM DOING ON YOUTUBE, AND IF THAT MAKES ME A WOOSEY

I GUESS I AM A WOOSEY, BUT I AM NOT A WOOSEY, I AM A COOL YOUNG DUDE

YOU SEE, I HAVE GROUPS LIKE MANS KID FIXES UP TO THE MEN, I AM NOT THAT, ******* ANYONE WHO THINKS I AM

A LADIES KID, WELL, I LIKE THAT A BIT, BUT I HATE THE SMOTHERING IT BRINGS

AN ADULT, NOT SHY TO GO TO BED, NOT ME, I SLEEP ON THE COUCH

A YOUNG DUDE BEING CREATIVE, PARTYING LISTENING TO MUSIC, THAT IS ME TO A TEE

MY YOUNG DUDE IS A STRUGGLING BUDDHIST ARTIST AND WRITER AND YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER

WHO LOVES TO PARTY

I PREFER MY YOUNG DUDE, MORE COOLER FOR ME TO PORTRAY

I HATE KIDS THINKING I AM CRAMPING THEIR STYLE

TEASE YOUR PARENTS, CAUSE I AM A COOL PERSON, BUDDY

I AM A YOUNG DUDE AND PROUD OF IT

there's a ringing in my ears that
sounds like the feed trucks roaring down 50
and  broken country music coming through
an ancient stereo, sounds like the way your
thick palms look when they pull a cap off a Coors
bottle, and that side eye you give, why do you keep looking at me like that?

Like what? As if my looks were incendiary glares and not photographs, I'm only taking you in, not taking you out. Like what? Hasn't anyone ever traced your lips or wondered if God built you out of brick? Laid silk over your harsh corners and sanded you down with a smile--why am I looking at you like that?

sounds like I put myself here and effectively took myself
out, sounds like you're one of kind and so different
and i've never felt this way
but I've heard all of those--

he's not waiting but i am, maybe for some kind of epiphany,
some kind of insurgent thought--an outpouring of light in the
rooms he thinks are lit, i wish I could light candles down his
tenebrous hallways, hang lanterns in the crook of his elbow,
make sure that the shadows only ever follow at a distance
but I can't assuage the feelings you haven't found, the fleeting
thoughts you ignore, I can't smelt the ore from your blood or
even pull a
splinter from
your palm.

He told me once he was in no hurry, no rush. But I've felt like i'm waiting on him, how strange, he'd probably say. Probably tell me
at least once more how much sense I don't make--but I tell myself that only a few people beat for me, run the tracks at the same speed--
that my explanations are enough for every other part of myself
and trying to explain that I am many, that I hang fire and break beds with prayer is like trying to describe colors;
warm, but not bright. Rich, hearty, elegant. -- Untitled. 1994. Oil on canvas.

ranked out ****
on drugs
lovin lady hugs hatin bugs
cuz
I smash em
like a hammer nailin
combine bailin
fire line trailin cuz I be sailin
distant shores
sunblocked pores
drinkin Coors
rollin with the movers
do her
then leave in the compost
heave her on the fence post
go coast to coast
roast that ***
like the muthafukkin
*** roast
almost coasted into the trap line
caught my behind
shot em from the tree line
try to unwind
blowin my mind
try to find
some kind
buds on the street
beatin calloused feet
greetin hip grannies
with my fly *** beats
eatin meat
shooting to killa
thrilla the hunt
act like Ted Nugent
‘cept I still be shootin drunk
listenin to funk
***** trunk honey smells bunk
and I roll out --

March and April are the time
when crappie bite and winds chime
Cedar Creek, Prince's dock
it's the spot do not mock

Years of trees submerged there
fishing rods used by the pair
minnow on one jig on the other
catching crappie is never a bother

Medium shiner and red and chartreuse skirt
cast em out wait for the ****
cold Coors lite in the fridge
if not biting here, let’s try Caney bridge

Or maybe a dock across the way
down on the dam at the end of the day
but usually the dock will do just fine
under lights at dark or in  sunshine

Fill the basket with white and black
watch the cork, reel the slack
when it bobs, set the hook
paperlip slab, fillet and cook

Electric knife and old butcher block
cleaning fish around the clock
cornmeal, seasoning and fillets
a great dinner at the end of the day

Shake in a sack and toss in hot oil
toss in some hushpuppies' watch it roil.
eating on the deck with family and friends
our bellies full, the day ends

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

what is it?
about running away?

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


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


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

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

around the time Hurricane Matthew was
tearing through Florida, it was 10:34pm in
Divide--

A Coors bottle pressed into your beard,
settled on your bottom lip in contemplation
a boyish reverie spun between us when you spoke
softly relaying the genealogy of the Hatfields & Mccoys,
Ole Ran'l, Devil Anse piping in, your accent seeps through
real Midwestern like--stops when you're on about prayer
trees and La Llorona


But I was deeply introspective,
heavily burdened by a Randy Travis song
how earlier that morning your fingers
had found their way around my hips--
        mine around your waistband, down your spine
        a helpless explorer driven across the mainland
       transversing shoulder blades, fascinated by chains
        around your neck, nooses, playthings or jewelry
         how around 3 am your gravely voice sought me
         out across a sea of torrid thoughts to ask if I was cold


yes. probably.


and when we start the decline, tripping lazily over moss clumps
dead grass, fallen trees, I storm and plow ahead because
when in doubt, race yourself.
Sheltered by the truck gate,
you've come up ahead and stand
in front of me, unassuming
both hands complacent--
so I ask you to kiss me
and there's a fiddle playin'
in my ears, a highway of
country streamin' through
my veins, or,
something
like that.

Waste the way that it tastes as it rolls off the filter
tip
Light off the night as it riles up our lower lives like pure
reptile brains
Do moths fly towards lightning bugs like
candles?
Does a drug overdose vision of God
turn the addict into a messiah
Or is it just another try at seeing the light
for the first time right overcoming might
Like a sight for sore eyes sick to my stomach
every **** morning
Two Coors Lights and the rain is pouring
it's **** cold in this Texas town

Saturday 29**
His house.
Filled not only with the people that I love
but all the people that I despise the most
The snap backs, the Coors, the drunken barbies
I chug the ***** and laugh at their stupidity
Cigarette number 1.2&3 at once
on the porch
and she gets there
pulls out her white powder
her lines in the kitchen
He yells, he wants to fight her
I don't want to stop him but I do
Is it terrible to think she'd be better off dead?
The smell of lust consumes me
as the air of a lost love surrounds me
He pulls me in
kissing him on drunken nights seems to become a trend
The friend that I can't lust for calls for me
he needs me
but I can't be there
Eventually I tear myself away
I curl up with the friend again
Giving him hope
in an impossible daydream

It has taken too many
Years of broken
Beer bottles
Porcelain
Pictures frames on the mantle
And promises to not notice

Mr. Glass is now belching
Mumbling songs off-key
In the kitchen
By the sink and Fridgidaire
To the soundtracks of John Lennon's
Lemonade love songs
Hitching a ride on Cat's peace train
Or manic for the Beatles
(British Invasion on vinyl)
He has lost his collections
Soaked and ruined
From a flood aboard his battle ship
He reminisces like this
Or as a mud person hippy youth
At Woodstock

Even when tucking himself in
My barely and not legal sized bed
Naked, laying with He-man themed sheets
And grumpy bear blue
On my pillow,

I wake to find him
Native and fetal
I am too keen to sleepwalk
So I pretend to
Toward the living room couch
Just the right size
For my eleven year old height.
I don't mind sleeping on the couch,
would rather not get soaked
In Mr. Glass' yellow
Miller time dreamscapes
It would be easy
To blame me, the kid, for bed wetting
After every twelve pack
Every couple of hours,
******* in the sinks, slowly
Losing his six pack
And or his composure
To tell tales, tall stories
To hear reasons why the cat
Ran away with the spoon
The nostalgia of his
Man on the moon...

Mr. Petty officer (1st class 2nd 3rd)
Has rarely lost his stomach
No stink of *****
Or pools of shrink and scram
Marinated in Coors and Budweiser
Weimereiner mountain man
Has his virtues
Or is it a skill?
Mr. Glass keeps it all in
Well
And rocks my sleep
Zeppelin
Half dozing to be fulfilled
I am those nights, nervous
Wreck and awake

Even as he breaks
Down nostalgic in his weeping
My ears become selective
Hugging my pillow
Listening for his fumbling
As he sways and crashes in my room
A clumsy beanstalk
Head in the cloud kingdom
Fe Fy fo falling
Down

Well, it's just the broken harp
No golden eggshells
But porcelain mosaics
Beer cans and wishes
Echoes slurring deep in the well
When he snores
I migrate my mind
Away from his hell
I shrug in silence
To its frequent scenes
Yet in the morning
We both slept pretty well
As far as I can tell
From my father figure
Deficiency

All is
So seems
And he means

Well.

Oh well.