I love to get drunk.
I love to get wasted, hammered,
plastered, intoxicated,
white girl, ****-faced drunk.

I have many stories about getting drunk,
from racing up the street and back naked because I lost another bet
being stripped down and thrown into a
shower after vomiting on myself,
or having *** with a ******* my friend’s couch
(I call it my *** couch now).

Okay so most of them I end up naked
But that’s the glory of ***** my friends!
Enough can make you feel like you have clothes on
when in fact you clearly do not have clothes on,
(We know, it’s cold, no one is looking at you’re **** anyways),
It can make you think you’re dance moves are on point,
Give you strength to punch a dent in a fridge because you thought someone was talking **** about you’re friend when really they were just talking about skateboarding,
It can even give you the courage to walk over to that really really
cute girl and tell her how much you want to put it in her ****.

The point of me telling you all of this is that some people have given alcohol a bad rep.
Obviously all the people who drunk drive and get into accidents.
But no, I’m talking about people like… the douchy frat boy who gets obnoxiously drunk, calls everyone a *** even though he’s probably a closet homosexual, who borderline tries to **** girls with his big muscles and amazing ability to care so much about football. By the way, I’m not you’re ******* bro.

Or the dumb girl who thinks she can drink a million shots and be okay, the one girl that pop punk bands always sing about, who end up puking everywhere, or sleeping with the douchy frat boys while all their friends call her a ****, and then she’ll make a post on facebook about how all guys are douchbags, among the other dumb **** she posts on facebook like stupid life quotes such as #YOLO

Or even the hipster who has ruined drinking PBR in public forever.
(No, I’m not a hipster, I just go to art school and PBR is cheap, you *******.)

And to those stuck up individuals who tell me that drinking is bad and I should feel bad: ******* and the high horse you rode in on. Saying I’m an alcoholic is saying that I have more fun then you. I have never met an interesting person who doesn’t drink. If you don’t drink, you’re a boring **** and all you’re stories ****. They all end with, “And then I got home.”

Alcohol was God’s way of telling us the world’s a ****** place, so he took a little bit of heaven and bottled it up for us, and if you believe any of this you’re probably drunk; Not the part about bottling up heaven, the part about God existing. But if I was you’re god, I would sprinkle wine out into the night so when you looked up at it to wither time away with questions to me you’d be so drunk with the moment and forget about being saved. Because life isn’t about heaven and hell, it’s about living and being alive and being drunk with the people you love.

How Dare You Tell Me - What Is Literature?
When I, waking pre-8:25 alarm, from some engulfing dream
Roll out of bed, read poetry when the day has hardly dawned
The wind surges through the crack in everything
Through my window, leaning and weeping
Screaming and tearing at me in Greys
Grays I've neglected in favour of Drakes
Socialising, absorbing this post-everything
Hearing echoes of Alex Turner
Soulful Amy drowned in Wine
The Magic Mushroom experiments of my early years
My late teens, which should have come earlier
Forced to grow fast to the sounds of Lennon and Kendrick

We live in a generation of not being in love, and not being together

When I first heard 'good kid, m.A.A.d city' I was still young
Because who told me what to expect?
Who told me but the Mothers and Teachers of the 80s?
The Bleeding Hearts and Artists make their stand
So Far Gone, falling free from the wall, unhinged
Leap of faith, like washing up the first cup in a student kitchen
Lemon drizzle flow and Drizzy seeping through every artery
A modern century, reaching 21 in 21

But back to the scene set to the Ice Age
Liverpool is my hometown,
London is frozen in memory, the pressure has us crash together
Our minds blend like time, concepts, musical genres
'Blurred Lines' - Feminist uproar defines this '4th' Wave
3rd Eye: We are living in the Future, in ignorance of the present
We are Generation Y, or Z, or just a generation of terrorists
Sages, Mystics, Heroes...

Sweeping winds through my window on a dreary morn
I read 45 pages of poetry because I feel like it,
Not because I have a seminar
University's red bricks fading away for me now
I'm just staring at a man's soul,
Attaching myself, this is why I write
I reach for the ceiling, in this small room
Yawning, the stretch of a new day
Going for gold (the sun, the stars)
Going for breakfast, alone downstairs with Paul Farley

As I stretch I look out the window
See four attractive, modern girls walking
(Probably to lectures, though it seems amidst the hour)
I can lecture too, with my arrogant, contemporary voice
I think - if they see me I will smile and wave, wink maybe
(Perhaps not, I am a feminist after all...is this ironic?)
These are products of angsty teen poem generators
They don't look, but I feel it may as well have happened
(I am in such a good mood I would smile at myself)

This generation seems to lounge in apathy
Girls in beanie hats, tripping off Raider **** (RVIDXR KLVN?)
Obey Snap Backs giving me Flash backs
I wish it was the 60s, I wish I could be happy
Trap is the new Rock and Roll, Prog-Rap is coming, sit tight
(Was this always about hip hop, girls etc?)
Am I as readable as Holden Caulfield?
Reading about John Lennon drinking Milk
I felt like Sylvia Plath on 10th February 1963
Well, I feel like Lennon on 11th February 1963
Am I even an '13 Ye?
Screaming 'R.I.P STEEZ', or 'Twist and Shout'
How far have we come now..?
When will we redefine 'Post-Modernism'
Or give this era a Literary title
Like PBR&B; or Indie
Like Blues or Jazz
Like the wind that rushes through my window and my follow up 9:45 alarm telling me I need to set off

All I wanted was a cigarette.
We weren't allowed to smoke.
He knew where to go.

We swept sidewalks together.
Raked sand together.
Talked about life together.

His window was across from mine.
I think he saw me changing once.
Maybe more than once.

He was getting dishonorably discharged.
I didn't think he was a good man.
I didn't think he was a bad one, either.

It had been two weeks since I landed in Monterey.
I only wanted a cigarette.
He knew where to go.

I bought the Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin.
He carried them with him to his room.
I didn't think anything of it.

We raked sand together.
We ate lunch together.
We watched movies together.

We sat on a makeshift bench by the ditch by the installation fence.
We drank and smoked and laughed.
I taught him Farsi and he taught me Russian.

Russian for "hello" and "goodbye."
Russian for "This is allowed."
Russian for "This is not allowed."

I think he saw me changing once.
He tried to kiss me on the cheek.
I told him no, my boyfriend wouldn't like that very much.

We smoked some more.
We drank some more.
We laughed some more.

It was 2130.
I had to be in my room by 2200.
He said not to worry, I'd be back in time.

I insisted and tried to leave.
I fell to the ground.
He didn't help me up.

I only wanted a cigarette.
He kissed me on the mouth.
I did not kiss him back.

I was immobile.
Paralyzed.
Drugged?

He kissed me again.
And again.
And again.

I did not kiss him back.
I had a boyfriend.
All I wanted was to smoke and drink and laugh.

He grabbed me by the ankles.
Pulled me over the ditch behind the army barracks by the installation fence.
I could hear soldiers coming back to their rooms.

I was paralyzed.
I always thought I would fight.
Fend him off with car keys stuffed between my fingers.

I looked up at the tree branches above me, my watch said 2147.
That was the last time I prayed to God.
There were leaves in my hair and dirt on my arms.

There was something less than a man between my legs.
It looked at me with hate in its eyes.
We swept sidewalks together.

God kicked back and swigged a PBR
     while I was ***** behind the army barracks,
     over the ditch by the installation fence.

He helped me up.
I couldn't stand on my own.
How sweet.

I vomited by a tree.
I was disgusted with myself and him and God.
I wanted to drown in Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin.

He walked me to my barracks building.
How sweet.
I made it to my room by 2200.

All the girls watched me stumble down the hallway.
I was so violently alone.
Taps wailed outside the window.

I left my hat by the bench by the ditch by the installation fence.
He brought it to me the next morning.
How sweet.

“The usual….perfessor”…asked the bartender.
“Not tonight Sam….celebrating….gonna hike it up a notch”….”Something from a bottle this time”.
“Maybe a PBR” he laughed, “…instead of the usual…draft PBR…bottle….”.
“On it’s way”….”why the upgrade”…”…it’s a whole twenty five cents more on the tab” laughed the bartender.

“Tonight, my dear sir, Tonight….was the opening of the school play…and I survived…barely….but, I survived..and I’m here to tell the tale”…”so….Tonight….we splurge!”.

“I forgot” said Ted, the barkeep. “I knew it was coming up….but, well…you are here…and not cowering in a corner somewhere, curled up in the fetal position…so, I am assuming that this year went better than last years version of “Death of a Salesman”.?”

“Better? it would not have been to tough to be better than that catastrophe…it was the best…THE BEST….out of all of the previous school plays…I couldn’t be more proud of how it turned out…..**** it..PBR and a chaser…it was that freaking good!”

“Really? In all of the years you’ve been teaching at the school you have never…NEVER come in here this happy about how the show went. I can’t believe it!”

“Don’t…It was crap. What I just did was acting. What they did, was crap. You know we did “Death of A Salesman”. Classic play. Great play. It’s been done by some of the best actors in the industry. Then, there was our version. It should have been called “Death of A Theater Arts Program”.

“Sorry to hear that Professor,  two more?”
“**** right, and keep them coming.”

“I was a working actor for years before I took this gig. I wasn’t great, but, I got by. These kids, I just don’t know, I just don’t get it.
The lights went up and they just lost it, it was more Monty Python than Arthur Miller. I mean, he must be spinning in his grave at some incredible speed right now. These kids made my brain hurt”

“It couldn’t have been that bad Professor, I mean, they did all right in rehearsal, didn’t they?”

“Sure, no family watching, no pressure at all…they did fine. But, once those lights went on and the curtains went up, it was every man for himself, total deer in the headlights on stage.  And through it all, I couldn’t do a **** thing except stand stage left thinking, “So, this is what the Captain of the Titanic felt like that fateful night”.

At this point in the conversation, the door opens and a man walks in. He hangs up his  overcoat and joins the men at the bar.

“****…what are you doing here?”

“You two friends?” asks the bartender

“Principal Paul Jackson” says the newcomer. “From…”

“Let me guess” said the bartender, “from the same school The Professor teaches at?”

“Two more…and one for him” says the teacher.

“Yes, that school. The Professor, I like that, I can get on board with that”.

“So, what brings you here? I mean, the play is over, the kids ******, and let me guess…oh, maybe you are here to dump on me, and give me my walking papers in private”

“******, I wouldn’t go that far Professor, I can call you that can’t I? It wasn’t great, but, I must say, after what we’ve had before, it was okay. I mean they tried, they were engaged, and nobody cried on stage like they did when we did Little Women”.

“Were you watching the same thing I was? They called ***** Loman “Wally”, eleven times….ELEVEN times!!! Engaged? they were so far off script, there was no way in the world we could get back. I mean, I tried, I really tried, and I thought we had it down. But, tonight, those lights went up and it was total deer in the headlights on stage, for each and every kid”.

The drinks arrive, and the bartender leaves the men alone.

“*****, Wally, what does it matter?” They winged it, and got through. I mean, it could have been worse, but, they forged ahead”.

“Forged ahead…Washington forged ahead  crossing the Potomac, these kids, wrote a whole new play on stage in real time. Nothing made sense. It was hard to watch. I was waiting for the audience to leave, which, I think…may have happened, had they been given a
chance with an intermission”.

“See…right there, nobody left. That is a plus. You have to admit that is a win right there…nobody left, and that sir is a winning program. They had to see where it went, what happened and Professor, what comes next?”

“You can’t be serious? or are you just being facetious? “, said the Professor.
“Oh, I am serious, deadly serious. You weren’t expected to put on an award winning play, just to entertain those who attended and most important, to be able to put on the play. Most times, it never sees the light of day, teachers quit the production, students quit, hell, I quit…twice. The goal was to put on a production and you did. It wasn’t great, hell, it wasn’t even good, but, it was entertaining in the way people drive slowly by a fire or a train wreck sort of way, and you did it.”

“Bartender, two more beers, make that three….one for you and more shots” yelled the Professor.

“Start picking next year’s show and no matter what happens…save these seats for the after party”.

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

Ironic wardrobe.
He only drinks PBR.
The complete hipster.

it's a college party
even though i never finished and the rest of y'all are spending money you don't have on the ingredients necessary for homemade sangria so you can drink the crippling anxiety of not knowing how to pay off your student loans away

there's a man living in a tent in the backyard, and i'm pretty sure we put one too many pieces of scrap wood in that very-hard-to-maintain bonfire. that has to be a metaphor for the state of most of our lives. stop throwing things i'm unprepared for in what already feels like a situation that is going to **** me.

is this a literal housewarming

i'm drunk, and sitting on the deck, counting the christmas lights. i smell ****, and there are white people dancing and singing to blink 182 inside.

i paint my name on a drywall with a brush and canisters i find on my way to the living room, where i'm asked to referee a game of beer pong. i lose interest quickly.

i scroll through my phone, sober enough not to text you but drunk enough to desperately want to. someone sits down next to me because i've apparently become that person at the party.

i talk about rent with a guy who really wants to connect on the fact that we're both middle eastern, even though i'm not middle eastern. he smells like PBR and completely believes what he's saying. he says he's proud of me for following my dreams of coming to new york and that he likes my "crazy hair" and that he wants to **** me.

i raise my eyebrows, more in disgust than interest, but he then takes his perceived cue to shamelessly ask me if i have a ******. i don't, and i leave before he brainstorms any alternatives i am just as aversive to.

ironically, i find a ****** dispenser attached to a tree on the walk to the subway. considering the amount of catcalling i experienced on the way to the station, my level of discomfort is amplified by the fact that the neighbourhood literally, physically implies, ******* is going to happen in the streets. it's 2am, and i just want to go home. and i'm sitting on the J train, recalling everyone who's told me it's shady and unreliable and makes you feel like you're going to die.

a few months later, i am nicknamed J train.

I called to give you a rearrangement of irony and a bucket full of Jews, I tailor made a rebreather because the past connections were used . Indeed, just like a crossview that encouraged stars to collapse, then did a fix up for the X's and O's so every oxymoron followed with a laugh. A pail of shrubs, an ounce of yore, yesterday you were following your very own bated breath. Up until you challenged yourself to a duel, you didn't look so bad for a disastrous mess. Harms' Way could be the place in town where odds go to get even, or it could be the street where Blow-Pops aren't just made, but also handed out to toothless citizens. We the captured, please and thank you, sir and mam until our captors go, like if you imagine  The Godfather in The Graduate, describing how the Komodo dragon roasts. We haven't made it thru a single day since they've come in packs of seven, but today we'll have the chance to share some face time with the hours that we are being given.

Misty-eyed, mournful, and very sorry walked in separately from the yard. They drank cold-filtered PBR and joked about all the kids they may have fathered. Has it been four weeks or just four days, since the Ferguson, Missouri Captain resigned his post? I was always taught that for a captain to go out, he or she must go down with their boat.

In time where boredom lays around with dynamite by the loads, tomorrow remind me of the basorexia I've had since we met not long ago.

I wonder if they're happy.
They sure do seem so.
They're always talking about stealing their daddy's Jaguars and having beer blasts and getting in to fights and being bros and getting tan and buying new swimsuits and getting a call from different modeling agencies and crashing cars and smoking cigarillos and drinking fancy wine and going to their beach house and deciding between Harvard and Yale or Porsche and Mustang and did we win the football game and making new friends and oh my God Stacy actually said that and dude, I totally ****** her and my math teacher is such a ***** and my parents are putting me into boarding school and check out my new Jordans and did you watch the sunset last night?

I don't know if they're having fun, but it sure seems like it.

*I wonder if they're having fun. It sure seems like it.
They're always talking about hitch hiking to the next city over and going to shows and drinking PBR and sneaking out at night and yeah dude, that party was sick and my tumblr is so famous right now and check out my new denim jacket and smoking **** and getting in to fights and lifting cigarettes from stores and Austin and Katie slept together and Kyle broke edge and I'm still working at McDonalds and yeah I'm still driving my '93 Ford Ranger and smoking hookah and watching Mean Girls and yeah I love the ocean and check out my new Kicks and did you watch the sunset last night?

I don't know if they're having fun, but it sure seems like it.

Pbr,
A Richmond hipster
Hip checking sobriety
And being hip in a social rivalry
Alcoholic tides to me
Nothing I can hide from me

****** American beer
Nothing but
Loathing and fear
Directed towards self
A reflection on the shelf
Left alone
With nobody else

Sinking
And sinking
And sinking

dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect

no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap

me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants

which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then

morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing

over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall

with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:

forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles

blessed and cursed I thought!

too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it

and never let go


6/23/18

Traipsing through alleys,
Awash in an alcoholic glow,
We play Frogger,
Headed to our usual spot.

PBR's and Mai Tai's disguised as Powerade,
The night elapses
In a haze
Of elaborate bottle passes.

To sit so happily slouched
around a burning skeleton
of PBR party packs
and revel in the cremation
of our troubles
To properly inter them
wreathed in white sage
and murmur melodies
until they seep into the dirt
To nourish.

Young and old people sipping beer, with hands in pockets and heads nodding to the rock music, standing in a crescent around the stage.

Some 30 year-old guy in a cut-off is on stage playing a bright red guitar which is shining silver. He finishes his set.

I'm sitting here alone and nobody seems to mind. Actually a couple of people have smiled and said hello.

One of the drunker guys sitting at the bar yells "Encore" first and then the rest of the room starts echoing him. Encore. I even let out a few "Woos!"

This man probably trades his cutoff for a collar during his day job. But we liked listening to him. He take a long drink of his PBR.

Then, he starts playing his bright red guitar again. The rest of the room is cast  in red lighting with blue-christmas tree lights dangling around the room.

The bar itself looks like we are on the inside of the hull of a ship.
Woody, damp, safe. Decorated by a collector of whisky bottles and olden times posters.

I'm in a booth and to my right is the act which just ended and to my left, books. "Can I buy you a book," I ask a beautiful woman at the bar motioning to the books with a smooth wink.

Just kidding, maybe next time. But as the act ends I see a drunken, happy, young man with a girl who looked like she was his girlfriend.

In his drunken courage he attempts to take her hand and bring her to the dance floor, now empty. He pulls a rare for college, Charlie Brown dancing, sort of moveset and she is laughing. It's still red blue and dim but she's probably blushing.

He keeps dancing by her till she stands up and dances near him, both of them laughing and enjoying and somehow dancing to the rock music that is playing.

He keeps motioning his finger for her to "come here" as he backs in the center of the dance floor, until eventually she follows.

For one song, the two dance by-themselves to this music, in the center of the dance floor and lights, bobbing in and out, and just jamming.

Swift punt to the soda pop tin
Littering the low lit path before me
Flash back to kick the can
And hopscotch jumping rope
To wittled cans from which to smoke
And losing family to knotted rope

Years pile on tense shoulders
Bearing zirconium smiling teeth
Finding diamonds in my grief
But always pacing forward

To flash back on bronze days
Glowing like bonfire embers
Finishing the last of the thirty rack
Never realizing I was drowning
Just sad and aloof and smiling
Smoking bad **** from a PBR can

Its a city I've never seen
as I ride waves painted on steel tracks
looking through worn out glass
to see the setting sun cast behind refineries,

I got off on McArthur, not really sure
but the voice said southbound
and I think I heard
San Francisco too,
These are good times to be aware and maybe
not wear what plays music in my ears
but I heard
cause I listened
and I found myself there,

"Man I know You!"
homeless men have diamond voices
when they sing me as I walk,
homeless times since 1982,
I'm sure you've all bought
one paper at one time for one dollar for someone before,

That night was my first night,
but I never read mine just got high on city lights
as I got lost on stockton and found myself on top of Sacramento,
and I'll tell ya I was looking for Jones street which is next to ofarrely.

12 pack PBR is a better deal then a six,
Apples make for better pipes
then glass on glass with sticks to light our way home,
home, where was I but old friends making new friends
reading old words hearing new,

"Im the Honeycomb baby
Yea baby
the Honeybomb",

Walking finding not so lonely bus's
Come out and Play yayyyyyy,
people know of warriors too
when you shout for no one in particular to hear
the public transport people know we all got somewhere far to go,

Welcome to the city streets
where leaking gutters
is one man peeing on the streets
I swear his stream was strong,

Welcome to the city view,
the tallest building,
that hill,
a university,
You can see the stars tonight
not always,
your lucky,
be ready for the cloudy nights,

Welcome to the city voice
where everyone sings their little tune
and everyone sings along,
you pick up one guitar,
two more might follow
with a bass and djembe too

Welcome to the city boy.
Its your new home for now,
and now is all that really matters.

And don't forget a bicycle
cause taxicabs ain't fun
when your broke
living life rich on something more then paper bills,

cause

You might work from 10 to 12
but your here and your living
and I hear everyone still goes out to play
cause you work for fun
and your fun is what you make it,

I might never leave
yet I might find myself coming back
its San Francisco
and I'm living near
to find out what the city means
to those who have lived suburban dreams
can only venture out to guess
what a city holds
for those little boys
finding out what it means to make a man.

So I'm welcomed to the city
and its only just begun,
cause now its my turn for another job
for more fun
made of all fun
in times to high to care,
cause it don't matter what you wear
or how you act,
as long as your discovering you
for what might be true,
Cant tell you that I know
But I'll tell you,

Welcome to the city,
cause you might already live here,
but listen to this Kansas Colorado Oregon kid speak,
everyday holds something new
no matter how long you've lived,
or plan to.

I saw this War Veteran on his porch yelling at this Hipster Kid who was tethered to his fence across the generational gapped front lawn, yelling back at him. And I mean, they got into it.
The kid wasn't doing anything really, just taking alternate swigs of foamy PBR and flat Red Bull and chucking the cans into the vet's unkempt garden, retorting Dylan lyrics and sentiments of Kerouac like the post-modern beatnik he was.
I couldn't make out what the Old Vet was saying. His voice was missing from probably smoking too many Benson & Hedges Black down in the trenches. I know he must have been saying something uncalled for, though, to get this Kid so riled up like that.
I'm not sure what they were arguing about since I awoke right in the middle of this altercation, hanging upside down on a bench in the park across the street. I suppose I'll just wait until the Vet goes back inside so I can go over and release the Kid and ask him what that was all about.

Nothing good ever happened after three am except you,
toxic whirlwind of bad decisions landing me in a
half wired half lit static stasis
half dressed, half mess, covered in ******* and pabst;
Maybe you're the bad thing after three
Maybe if we stay up a little longer it'll cancel out the last few years.

It's 2am in December and my windows are all open.
Every
one.
Heat off.
Clothes off.
Trying to remember what it's like to feel..

I'd smoke another Newport, but I've smoked so many
that it hurts to inhale normal air,
especially the crisp winter air
that's pouring into my apartment,
sleep seems futile..

There's an empty bottle of cheap pinot lying next to me,
a half-finished PBR, from the thirty I bought myself
and I haven't thought of you in a while.
Hello there...

My mind wanders to that alleyway in the heart of Columbus,
dark and deserted,
the sounds of lovers off in the distance,
my boyfriend calling my name, searching
but I can't hear him.
I can only hear you...

You see love, I haven't thought of you,
haven't let myself back to that place
because I met a nice boy,
who told me nice things,
asked nicely if he could touch me, in nice places
before he did so,
and it was nice...

So I waited and he waited,
took things slowly for once,
convinced him it was worth it,
that I, was worth it,
so when he told me, it was beautiful
and I told him right back.
it was beautiful,
"I love you"...

And don't you dare question me, love
for I love him,
because he thinks I'm wonderful,
hasn't seen the scary parts that I'd showed you,
doesn't believe I'm as broken as I say,
He tells me I'm perfect...

But yet,
that night in Columbus, Ohio still haunts me,
the night you rode a bus for sixteen hours to get to,
that moment we're screaming at each other,
I'm telling you that I hate you, and I know you've never cared
why are you even here? I HATE you...!

You kiss me.

Kiss me...
Like your sole purpose in life... was to kiss me.
Right then.
Right there.
Like you'd been waiting forever..

You kiss me
like you were created by God
for the final moment
where your lips would dance with mine,
and fireworks would fly
from your fingertips
as they brushed across my cheeks,
turning tears into vapor,
unspoken truths into song,
longing into love,

you kissed me.

Kissed me, and saved me from being stone..

That night, you told me everything I'd ever longed for you to tell me.
Told me about your terrifying family,
and the reasons you were better off being alone.
I wept into your arms as you told me you loved me,
that you had given me every single thing you could,
how you were sorry it wasn't enough.
And I told you all the sad things I'd lived through,
all the boys who never learned my name,
all the nights I'd never had a home,
the day I wished I was dead..

And you stroked my hair, told me not to cry,
wiped the tears from my cheeks,
while I told you that all you had to do was ask,
that I'd come back for you.
All you had to do was tell me to come back, for you.

And that night,
in that tiny apartment, 700 miles from home
you made love to me,
kissed me softly,
whispered sweet nothings until I fell asleep on your chest...
You became home, my love,
You were my home.



The next day,
you got on a Greyhound bus back to where you came from.
Didn't look back.
And I went back to that little apartment,
never looked back down that alleyway,
and once more,
became stone.

In the presence of god and all of his creation I will tell you the stunning amazement that is the northern lights.
The way that god will drain the tub he relaxes in. Just so we can be rained upon by this phenomenon called aurora borealis. Graciously dancing across the sky we have known as blue. Knowing it is nothing more than a universe full of questions I am afraid to ask. So tell me.

I want to know how they felt 100 years ago. How did your culture interpret this magic sky shifting juncture that formed ballets above them. Tell me how they navigated the north star. A fixture in the sky meaning nothing but everything to the right person. Finding the broken piece between reality and imagination. Our compass has been thrown off by the deception lain across our flesh.

Let this culture lead by example. That we may one day step outside our lightbulb lives and exist in the moment that we use to call the world. Moments like sunsets and the things we refer to as constellations. May those anomalies cross your brain, find you broken in bed. Clawing out of your chest trying to show you what it is to feel. Embrace what your ancestors left. Dreams of a sustainable culture. Get off your ******* phone and cross the lagoon. Respect the chucks of history laid on your shoulder. It is not just a chip.

May those moments haunt you in your dreams. And have the culture injected into your veins. Have this as a message. Fill your dreams with nightmares of a village under water. Drowning in learned helplessness. Not understanding which direction is up when the clouds are out.

America has taught us that the past is irrelevant. That in historical events we have always made the best decision. That slavery was justified, if you ask the right person. Columbus was god upon men. Yesterday is gone for we will embroider the memories of what once was into any shape we desire. And America has given up and now PBR belongs to Russia.

This stand is for you, Inupaiq Eskimos. Let the Eskimo games begin. Show this culture that you have not forgotten the importance of your ankles. The function of chasing Caribou. May the preservative dust upon the shelf as you are dusting the tundra for dinner. Shall we build a fortified wall around the unique skills no one will dig their fingernails into.

Live off the land under the toes of the greedy americans. Show them the flowers that have been stomping upon and how these flower heal the broken hearts held in their chest. The flat land that is looked after as boring with a hint of forgotten. Show them the importance of leveled landscape. Where to find the hidden dips in the skin of our earth. How your bones will forgive you for this moment of rest.

I will never be an Eskimo. I have only live here for a few months of my life. But ****** son, stand up with your spine into your skull. Connecting you with right now and days we have left behind. Please take a moment. Read a book. Learn a trade. Apply the sinews attached to the bones in your chest, and take a moment to breathe in your heritage. Take your first breathe and see life, as it is meant to be.

when it becomes more about
how ****** up can we get
how far away from sober can we fall or rise
when the see saw always has the neighborhood fat kid sitting at the other end
then it might be time to evaluate your life
but,
then again,
there's still a half case of PBR in the fridge
and marijuana's hiding behind every single corner
exciting until it gets too boring
then you can always search for that gateway they prattled on about so much in health class
walking down a straight edge only leaves you with ****** feet
and you need those suckers for running,
right?

yeah we're getting drunk at four in the afternoon
we don't have anywhere to drive to.
we have no class
no responsibility
my city's filthy
I live in the art district
nobody else anywhere else in the world can say that
Richmond knows how to lay it down
how to make the children feel invincible
how to make the women feel like super models
and the men like long lost kings
don't like my poems?
that's fine
we flow to a different drum beat
yeah we are a bunch of
PBR swilling hipsters in our non corrective lenses
but we know how humanity dances back and forth
like the flickering of candle light
and I've never felt out of place here
only just as weird as everybody else
we are pathological liars and sociopaths
our apathy is only matched by our endless empathy
My Mum thinks I am a hell of a writer
endless support
but the anonymity never ends
a scroll from God to lead us to death
and the transvestites are polite enough
boy you smell ****\
they blurt out as I walk past in a cloud of old spice
the art school chicks make me feel validated
when I find myself sneaking out of their houses in the morning's yawn
come to Richmond if you want a good time
if you're fake you'll make it
but if you're bitter and jaded
you might pass out of interest
like cartoons to a 15 year old
I could talk **** on this city all night
but truth be told
I love what I hate
and truth withheld
don't tell my English friends
that my heart beats
solely for that
RVA-lution

My momma always warned me
She’d say
“Baby doll liquor runs through our veins”
I was making a family tree for health class last week and a third of the people hanging from the branches had beer bottles clinking next to them.
My grandfather’s favorite hobby was downing a bottle of jack and carrying out the cliché tradition of beating his wife and kids
Just like his father did.
My dad learned from this vowing never to forget what alcohol did too his family
My uncle he drinks just trying to forget.
My mother has a similar background
She remembers riding into town with my grandma to buy her granddaddy’s medicine
It was only until she was older she realized the pharmacy was an ABC
The “medicine” cheap whiskey
As the elixir slid down my great grandfathers throat it trickled into the workings of our tree
Infecting its core
Yeah my parents would always warn me
Against the dangers of alcohol
Don’t drink the punch at parties
Don’t be like your uncles
Don’t end up like your aunts
But what they failed to tell me was depression runs through our veins too
They taught me how to ward off being a drunkard
But never told me to stay away from the dark spaces in my mind
They never taught me what to do about the numbness
And in my house people are more ashamed
Of going to therapy than alcoholics anonymous.
How do you protect yourself from something already inside you?
You see those relatives of mine
They were doctors
Preforming at home blood transfusions
Replacing the bad blood with good beer
The dark thoughts with white wine
Until the depression swimming through them was too drunk to see straight
We nurture our family tree with PBR and Prozac
Helping the roots twist and grow so they can grasp for the younger generation dangling from the lower limbs and I mean
Hey we all need something to make the feelings go away
And they say alcohol’s not the answer
But it sure as hell makes you forget the question
We all need something to forget the questions
And Like my kin I picked my poison
Because I felt it
The liquor in my veins I felt it
getting warmer
Hotter
Hot
This liquid in my veins it gets too hot.
I’m slitting my wrist to poor myself another shot
It’s not what it looks like momma
I just wanna feel that buzz and my blood is all I got
I picked my poison
I’m like my uncles
A crude copy of my aunts
I’m an addict
Just not an alcoholic

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?

I was told today
That my life choices
Offend some.
Offend,
The same word my editor used against me
As a precaution
When I told her
That I wanted to write an opinion article
About why Mark David Chapman
Should be released from prison.
I was warned that I would offend some readers,
And that was to be expected.
After all,
It was an opinion piece.

But today I was told
That some of my lifestyle choices offend
And I couldn't help but to ask:
"Which ones?"

At which point this woman lost her **** on me.
"How can you possibly be having relations with a man
So much older than you?
Isn't he graying?
Isn't he...
More mature, intelligent than
You?"

And I felt my world implode.
This woman, this foul, wretched beast with ****
Was openly denouncing
Everything I had built myself on over the last year.
And I could tell this woman
Went home to a white picket fence and
Screaming, spoiled, ******* kids,
And a husband who beat her ***
But was at least in her age range
Every night.

And I seethed.

And I sobbed.

With what wretchedness I took down the notes of the Earth today,
For it continued to turn
Even as I felt myself shattering inside.
How can one be so obsessed,
So offended by another's
Choice in love;
As if I even had a ******* choice
To begin with?

Who's to say
That even though I don't go home
With him every night,
That I don't go home to solace and peace
And all those other ******* things
I could never find
While making out with men my age
Who had whiskey and PBR on their breath
And strong, red cigarettes twisted in their knuckles?

Who is there to say
That love is not present
In our every move, our every caress
During the films we watch every time we see each other?
We watch The Shining and he holds me close
Because jump scares make me scream like a little *****.
We watch Moonrise Kingdom
And I can feel him kiss my cheek,
Making me blush
As he remarks on how we are so much like
Those children on the screen.
So in love.
So innocent.
So tender you could puke.

I have nightmares with every evening-fall
And he dies in each of them,
Making each night a new horror
That I have seen so many times.
I woke up screaming in his bed once
And he was clutching me from behind,
His arms coiling my midsection,
His panicked breath hot on my neck.

You don't cry over scaring someone
You do not love.

He loves video games,
Megaman's his favorite.
When he tells me the stories
Because the games are much too hard for me,
I see his brown, sparking eyes
Alight with a shine of wonder
And I know
He doesn't know that he's a hero in himself,
Much like his little blue childhood
Role model.

My picket fence
Could easily be sufficed
With the balcony of a small apartment
Or a suburban chain-link fence
So long as I know
That I am standing on or behind it
With him at my side.

Twelve years is not a death sentence in love,
Neither is being told that your choices are offensive.

There is a beauty that comes
With courting an older man.
Words flow easier,
Advice is given without judgement.
Arguments are had over
What the **** Alex Hirsch meant with that episode,
Rather than who the hell were you just texting?

I am young.
And I am in love,
The kind I would not mind
Inviting in for the rest of my days.

He is not graying.
He is not a monster.

He is my friend,
My lover,
My partner in crime,
The man I make watch too many Stanley Kubrick and Wes Anderson movies,
My darling,
My sweetheart,
And the light of my life.

I couldn't care less if that offends you.

2 Mexican coffees
A shot of makers mark
A PBR,
It was a **** night.

Moving to New Orleans
Has saved my life.

there is always bad
And sometimes there's good,
It hits  you like a salty wave.

Maybe I drink to much anyways-
Making my rent day to day,
At least I'm living
My way.

Do you wanna be friends with me
  do you wanna be friends
  with a punk like me
My iron cross tattoo and a
  middle school concept of
    anarchy
  we can
  go to shows and smoke Newports
  bring down the establishment with
    empty cans of PBR and spraypaint

So you wanna be friends with me
  So you wanna be friends
  With a wretch like me
My dog eared copy of Slaughterhouse-5
And my irrational distaste for
   Humanity
We can
Smoke *** in your backyard and
Scream about ****** babies
   While burning bible pages
As if we were making a statement about the inherent theocracy plaguing
Our government

Do you wanna be friends with me
Do you wanna be ****** like me