I found a book of wisdom
And read it through and through
To learn about a way of life
Taught by a great Guru.

He said the way to inner peace
Was there for everyone—
Just make a list and finish
All those things you’ve left undone.

I searched my own house thoroughly
And made myself a list.
I finished off these undone things
As I fulfilled my quest:

A bottle of Jack Daniel’s,
Three of my favorite rums,
Some sherry and some cooking wine,
A box or two of tums,

A box of chocolate cherries—brandied to give a kick
I’m now a mellow fellow
But I’m also terribly sick!

Rums got me runnin'
back into those arms.

Behind them
head light eyes,
lies
a different story.

This fifths got me
walkin' the plank.
"Captains" orders.

The day crept by; we all held
our breaths.
Tip Toeing on egg shells,  
doing our collective best.
Attempting only forced
politeness and meaningless
small chat.

While avoiding the family elephant in
the room, our father's painful history
of attacking his kid's many faults and
failings, with his long history of aggressive
verbal abuse.

The tree was lighted, the room gaily
decorated with all the colorful Christmas
props of our childhood. Mom cooked her
best guess of each of our, once adolescent
favorite foods. My two sisters, my older
and younger brother and me too.

While Dad bit his tongue and tried to stay
hushed, as Mom had pleaded for days for
him to do.

Half way through dinner and a few Hot
Buttered Rums, the small talk turned serious,
and just like that, we were all truly back
home again.

Grown adults quickly reduced to sniveling
petty children sitting at their curl and
domineering Father's dinner table.

Old wounds opened and bleed upon Mom's
best-treasured table cloth. Food grew cold
for lack of interest, eyes flared and oaths of
profanity mingled with cheery Holiday Music
on the stereo.  Belligerence ensued and the old
man raged as one by one he verbally listed his
disappointments, at each of our many collective
faults. A string of loud insults and accusation
were exchanged and flung liberally about in
both directions. 

Judy's new husband took a swing at Jason for
reasons unknown, and the women protesting
their loutish behavior, separated them.

Earl and his small clan fled out the door and
drove straight back to Emeryville with not one
word of goodbye having been uttered, leaving
his kids Presents, behind unopened.

In tears, Sandy ran back up to her old room as she
had always done to escape, only to discover, that
it had been turned into a "Home Office/Sewing Den."
All her things gone to the Goodwill or garbage bin.

Dad went to the cupboard and got his bottle of
Scotch and the rest of us all quickly adjourned.

Mom started to cry and never quit.

The Dog Days of Christmas had recommenced,
and all the Kings horses and all the Kings men
could never put our broken Castle together again.

I donned my helmet, swung a leg over my Hog
and headed for the mountains, leaving Christmas
and all of them in my rear-view mirror.  

"Peace on Earth and Good Will Towards Men",
does not work for everybody friend. Hopefully,
maybe next year, we'll try it all again.

The darkest hour
Is just before dawn
Maybe thats why
The rums always gone

A lush in the day
& a fiend at night
I just can't seem
To get it right

So yo ** **
& a bottle of ***
I think this poets time
Has come

As I drift off humming
A sailors tune
I'll be back tomorrow
& none too soon

In the valley of darkness, I shall not want
Though a hole resides where the heartbeat should be
The vessels still do their work

My lungs decay, black and smoked out
And my organs dry up from strong rums
And the things I hold dear become a desert storm

But I shall not ask for the help of dying trees
Whose fruit, though ripe, would leave me with less leaves
Or perhaps with more than I could bear

No, I stand on the mountains
The mountains we lived in, where the church sits upon the hill
I stand on the mountains and call for him

I call for him
and I know - without science or senses -
That he is near

GOD THE DEVIL AND BOB at easter


today it’s good friday and bob delahunty was going to church to have a

hot cross bun feast, and a hungry poor buddhist was going into the church

and asked bob, why do the christians like to eat over easter, what is it all about

and bob said, it’s a time where families, forget about their differences and share

a big celebration, with hot cross buns today after their service and then on easter

they will host family get togethers, where the kids are forced to hunt for eggs

that the parents hid in the garden, it is a very good day, and the buddhist man said

why can’t christians be nice to each other every day, like us buddhists ands bob said,

well, i guess your right, but life hands us problems to fix, like divorce and family quarrels

and battles that can’t be resolved, you see we are always away from loved ones and easter

is a way to keep updated on where our loved ones are, and then the buddhist asked bob

why can’t they scype every night and then bob said, buddy, no person really wants to do that,

actually, it is great to give families fun at easter, like sending kids on easter hunts, how radical dude

and have great hot cross bun morning teas, where we all can feast, yeah, if we did these things every day

we would get so fat, and kids will be so greedy, and we need every city in the land to pop

open the champagne corks, saying HAPPY EASTER DUDES, AND TO ALL A HAPPY FEASTING

you see easter if you add an f, could mean, the annual feaster, but we took the f away to make you feel great

and then the buddhist said, ok but what if you were fasting in a remote country and you had to knock

back the hot cross buns and easter eggs and bob said ok, yeah, if your fasting you must say no, i am on a diet

and the buddhist said, what if you went to a nightclub and got heavily ******, from vodkas and rums etc etc

and get too drunk on easter saturday, are you still expected to roll up to family get togethers on easter sunday

and bob said yes, then the buddhist said, how do you cope, HOW THE **** DO YOU COPE

this is how, you sing

god is the devil and the devil is grog

god is the devil and the devil is grog

god is the devil and the devil is grog

especially round easter time where drinking may send you back and forwards to the sink spewing

and the buddhist asked bob one thing, before he went to tiabet, he asked, is there really such thing as a devil

because every night i drink a whole bottle of wine by myself and bob said, well if the devil was grog i think

i am the devil, cause, grog is my cup of tea

and the buddhist went home and bob left saying this one word, misbehave, everyone who drinks grog misbehaves

and there is nothing wrong with that, bob said happy easter and went back to the devil’s hideout and the buddhist blessed him

saying, the devil, there is no such thing

Lisa and I finally tested covid-free! When we saw our results, we began an impromptu dance that felt like levitation.

Although my covid case seemed much milder, Lisa’s been nothing but supportive. Why just yesterday morning, before we tested, Lisa said, “If you test covid-free before I do, I’ll **** you.” She was holding a spork which gave the threat a specific gravity it might otherwise have lacked.
“Back off, Sweeny,” I said.

We worked the next day, masked - just in case - and I’d swear that Rebecca, my surgeon, almost smiled when she saw me. As funny as Rebecca is, off-hours, once she puts on that white coat - forgetaboutit - she goes to some other, humor-free zone.

That night, we went out to our favorite bar to celebrate our Lazarus-like resurrections.

In the club, as we were walking to the bar, Lisa asked me, “What if we get carded?” I gasped. Never, have I EVER been carded. To even suggest the possibility is to risk breaking a spell that has lasted since I was fifteen years old and first walked in the adult-bar world.

It’s not that I look old, I’ve been told I don't look 21 (although I’m almost 20) - but in dark, bar-light - I just look “right,” like I belong. And let's face it, no bar turns away college girls or charges them a cover - we’re good for business.

I put a hand on Lisa’s shoulder and stopped us in our tracks. “Turn around three times,” I said.
“Why?” She asked. “To break the god-****, bad luck, vu doo you just put on us!” I said exasperatedly. She shrugged and started to turn in a circle. Again I took her by the shoulders, “Counter-clockwise,” I instructed, “don’t you know anything?!” Once she’d broken the jinx, we were free to go on.  The next part can only be poetry.

Behind the bar were shelves of bottles, brightly lit,
with pastel glows that shame the merely silver moon.
Red rums, golden bourbons, begging you to commit,
elixirs that dull every pain and brighten every mood.
Give us your tired, your lonely, and like Houdini
we’ll invoke fun with mystical treats like martinis.

We were basking in those lantern-like glows, like tourists, in heaven, when a bartender said, “What can I get you?” How generous those words were, how open and inviting.

“What’s your name?” I asked, he was wearing a name tag but I leaned in and gave him my friendliest smile. It’s important to establish a personal connection - but you can’t get carried away. He might be gay and decide you’re trailer.

“Brian,” he said. Brian was talking to me, but then he’d noticed Lisa and suddenly, he couldn’t take his eyes off her (Lisa’s an adriana). This bartender wasn’t gay at ALL.

I handed him my black, Centurion, American Express card “Can we set a tab for us?” I motioned to include Lisa, “and please include a 30% tip for yourself.” I smiled. He smiled.
“Oh, and there’ll be a gentleman joining us as well (Charles).”
“Sure.” he said, as he swiped the card on his iPad, adding, “now, what are you having?”

I’m a bit of a bon vivant, where cocktails are concerned but tonight, we’ll keep it vanilla.
“We’ll start with a Cherry coke (for Charles) and,” I looked at Lisa for approval, “Two American Martinis?” She smiled, “Please,” I added, putting my card away.
The coke is psychologically important; it gives the bartender what’s called 'plausible deniability.’
“Do you have a menu?” I said, as he turned to go. “Coming right up,” he said.

We were on a rooftop terrace that overlooked the Boston skyline. To the left, there were tables enclosed in glowing, geodesic bubbles that changed colors and off to the right, a dance space where couples were dancing, and a DJ was spinning ‘Sorja Smith’s - Little things.’

Our drinks arrived and Lisa and I laughingly toasted our covid survival.
At that moment, at least, everything seemed right with the world.

It doesn't matter if you're set
Christmas always comes
Even if you do forget
It doesn't matter if you're set

Even if real ****** you get
On egg nog with five different rums
It doesn't matter if you're set
Christmas Always Comes!!

The moon rose up, the sky is naked,
His world is empty, the stars are faded,
He never gives up, completing his deed,
He’s looking for lost city, indeed.

He passed through deserts and storms,
Best friends were whiskies and rums,
Heart was destined to cold rooms,
That left him with aches and bruise.

Great walls on horizon, surrounded with high waterfalls,
Place reminds of paradise with its colorful butterflies,
He found his Atlantis, the mission is done,
The aches are healed, the pain is gone.

He woke up to see the blue sky,
Endlessly watch birds fly,
Eyes are open, where are the walls?
Where are birds and waterfalls?

Infinite desert is the only option,
This adventure was a blissful fiction,
Forget lost city, build your Atlantis,
Build your city of delighted fantasies.

Writers block is like the feeling of
Dry-heaving at a toilet that’s not even yours because of
An unsettled stomach from 8 beers,
An unknown quantity of various rums, ***** and mixed drinks,
And being borrowed from bed for a beautifully burnt blunt.
Nothing seems to come out no matter how hard you try
Until you open your bloodshot eyes
15 minutes later
And something is there.

On the fire lit night
when it's cold and you're tired
and you just want to sit down
and partake of some tea,
but the coal bunkers empty,
the miners are striking, so
you sit with your socks on your ears
to keep out the chill and the bills
keep on coming,
electric and gas and the tally man makes
one more pass to look through the letterbox,
you pretend you're not home.

On the fire lit night,
I have spoken to sailors who
have come into port,
downed a few dark rums and
caught up with the news.

When you have it
you don't want it
on the fire lit nights
I want it all.

On the waste ground the tricksters are
out tipping their refuse,
there are no bills for them,
the tricktipping men,
just the rot
what a sight,
wish I could watch
from a fire lit night.

There's hole beneath me I can't quite fathom
Until I fell and buried me, then it became a tomb
Holding my very existence of what of my means?
Till' the end, so much questions bursting at the seams
Then I woke up in a dream where I'm still dying
Holding my breath with your air in my lungs, so suffocating
I realized the difference that there are none
Living or dying it doesn't matter just wanna leave and be gone
Off and out of this world far far away from your memory
Somewhere where there's a new me and you in reverse so happy
Together in a book filled with colorful words not in grey
Sometimes I question Love! Cause' it doesn't really know how to pay
Better days drowned along with me drinking gallons of rums
Efforts wasted sacrifices voided into an empty bottle of jams
Where it supposed to flavor the flame with sweetness burning
Not with bitterness of sorrow hate misery and so much aching
Now I'm done writing my complaints for today gotta drift away
I'll bury myself alive with questions of what tomorrow would say

Gaze not at your Christmas tree, nor the many wrapped gifts laid there beneath. For what ever they may be, the greatest gift of Christmas, was long ago bequeathed.

On that cold night in Bethlehem, was born him without sin, Emmanuel, the Promised One, did the people call him. O do you hear the angels herald and sing: "Glory to the King of Kings."

O, what priceless gifts have ye. Of which, how many may set your spirit free? Silver, Gold, precious gems and jewellery, though all are good within none salvation be.

So on this one night promise me, that you'll forget your hams and turkeys, sweet wines, rums and brandies. For Christmas should be more than a feast, festival, or fair, it should be a time of reflection of yesteryear; accepting one's losses, and appreciating one's gains. And most of all remembering Christ for whom, the day is named.

And I'll promise you, after all this pain, a Christmas that you will believe: Could never be the same!

there's a parade full of biggs and goblins and bums
there's a shelf in the corner with gins and rums

there's a bite in the cake, where the sweetness lay
there's a bite in my throat, where the lord fangs prey

there's a fairy who sits and never tells
there's a boy who's been sent to all seven hells

there's big ears and hairy arms and floppy feet
and there's upside-down heads and kisses where the lips meet

While I wait for the kettle to boil and whistle its merry tune
I'll toil away like a sucker
hoovering up dust in my room.

I'd rather be watching Wimbledon
seeing for myself what's going on,
but I never paid the electric bill,

Still,
the room did need some cleaning.

When I get to get to five o-clock and the shadow comes, I knock back a couple of hot spiced rums before I begin to shave.

Generally I save the best 'til last and usually when I run out of
'Elastoplast'
(that's a trade name I wear on such occasions)

blood casts its own shadow and wanders through the water in the sink,
and I watch the shapes that it makes
until my eyes ache.

take a break?
nice if you can,
but I'm a
hard working
harder pressed man
so
i carry on
not watching Wimbledon
and waiting for five
to arrive.

The day crept by; we all held
our breaths. Tip Toeing on
egg shells, doing our collective
best. Attempting only forced
politeness and meaningless
small chat.

While avoiding the family elephant in
the room, our father's painful history
of attacking his kid's perceived many
faults and failings, with his long history
of nasty aggressive verbal abuse.

The tree was lighted, the room gaily
decorated with all the colorful Christmas
props of our childhood. Mom cooked her
best guess of each of our, once adolescent
favorite foods. My two sisters, my older
and younger brother and me too.

While Dad bit his tongue and tried to stay
hushed, as Mom had pleaded for days that
he should do.

Halfway through dinner and a few Hot
Buttered Rums, the small talk turned serious,
and just like that, we were all truly back
home again.

Grown adults quickly reduced to sniveling
petty children sitting at their curl and
domineering Father's dinner table.

Old wounds opened and bleed upon Mom's
best-treasured tablecloth. Food grew cold
for lack of interest, eyes flared and oaths of
profanity mingled with cheery Holiday Music
on the stereo.  Belligerence ensued and the old
man raged as one by one he verbally listed his
disappointments, at each of our many collective
faults. A string of loud insults and accusation
were exchanged and flung liberally about in
all directions.

Judy's new husband took a swing at Jason for
reasons unknown, and the women protesting
their loutish behavior, separated them.

Earl and his small clan fled out the door and
drove straight back to Emeryville with not one
word of goodbye having been uttered, leaving
his kids Presents, behind unopened.

In tears, Sandy ran back up to her old room as she
had always done to escape, only to discover, that
it had been turned into a "Home Office/Sewing Den."
All her things gone to the Goodwill or garbage bin.

Dad went to the cupboard and got his bottle of
Scotch and the rest of us all quickly adjourned.

Mom started to cry and never quit.

The Dog Days of Christmas had recommenced,
and all the Kings horses and all the Kings men
could never put our broken Castle together again.

I donned my helmet, swung a leg over my Hog
and headed for the mountains, leaving Christmas
and all of them in my rear-view mirrors.  

Just maybe, next year we will all try this again.

so i'm sitting there, on my windowsill, drinking a blackbeard
(dark *** & ms. pepsi), and solving a sudoku...
existentialism can, really get you kicking the paranoid bucket,
esp. if you read something by jean-paul sartre...
was it him, or was it someone else, who said:
to be, is to be seen...    no wonder, the need for fashion...
                              or might as well call it ****, given it's
coming from france anway...
oh but my "neighbours" (i'd say neighbours if i actually
talked to them... so much for the hope of "integrating"
into english society, when your neighbours play idiots,
or mutes, and you could die in their presence, and then they'd
talk... but only about the stench of a rotting corpse
two weeks later)...
                         anyways... so i'm solving this sudoku and that quote
hits me... someone, might actually be watching me,
  voyeurism is a thing these days, apparently, borrowed
from the 20th century french existentialists...
       but i can't help it after a while... so i'm mumbling to myself,
3    8     5          4    6  9     1     7    2    
6
1
7
4
2          
8                                                               ­            (1 2 3
5                                                              ­              4 5 6
9                                                              ­              7 8 9)...
the mumbling bit comes nearing the end of the puzzle
when you do count: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9... as enforced by the brackets...
  but then laughter arises from my filthy gob...
            i'm not, rain man for ****'s sake! ha ha!
i'm not even going to answer that by saying: oh yeah, i'm 'ard
downing some *** and pepsi...
                              i just like drinking... it's the sedative property
of alcohol that some... well... most people have yet to discover...
        saying that... most people won't...
  so they'll turn to barbiturates... or *****... or marijuana...
   oh hey... nietzsche lamented this scenario...
                                he was high as a kite on barbiturates
(personal life detail)... and he implored to be taught by
     dionysus... to be a disciple of the god of wine...
                       some people really don't know how to drink,
they go off the tangent, it seems a steady diet and then
an inject of "empty" calories in drinks which makes them
           go off the rails, and turn into
                                   absolute bonkers *****...
               this would have been his last and only invocation:
to become a disciple of someone who could school them in drinking...
i'm not too sure about dionysus-ultra, i.e. hitting the rums
    and whiskeys and vodkas...
     you know that story about spartans, right?
   they used to drink wine, but diluted it, half & half...
   and when they wanted to shame an alcoholic
   they gave him the full measure, and marched him down
the street of lacadaemon, kicking him up the ***...
    very much translated into putting a dunce's cap on
someone, and making him ride a donkey, sitting backwards...
                but you can sense from the extract of his writings
(ecce ****?), that he became fed-up with the barbiturates...
   miserable ****** wanted to learn how to laugh
                                         while drinking in his solitude;
and i'd tell him just as much: most people can't laugh
when drinking by themselves... the miserable ***** while never
learn, to unlearn their idea of drinking as a case for
stupid pranks, grizzly ***, and in general... a bad scene on
a night club's dancefloor.

Is not a trained mind but a strafing cordial?
Their after thoughts the tallest and shortest they'll be

Yet the disease we'll never confess to the mob of our doom
Been identified as not our chivalrous and sauntering loom

Still no defined regression perhaps as a lesson we fight
The distance of shores the brattiest of children become polite

If thinking of this alone does one
know you're absolved of crime?
The wily prowess the city and core the theory
and files devoid of cheers
Should we follow the crevice into the
heat the cold seals the grievous
No we can't astride the immediate rants
which need flow mischievous

Dabbles thinking nothing of your senseless powers
the foreboding and bright
Done to have a platter and set a plate
but to no pound of flesh deviate
... or ensue...?
Say!
Rats of rums great falls of watered absinthe
Chains to the pain and the best of fortunes synthesis
Do this! As a mortal! however.. **** as a fortress!


note: as in "****" simile for creative writing

Because I cannot tell you I’m falling in love with you yet, I tell you when I kiss you, in those moments when I try so hard to yell, scream it into your awareness with the gentle touch that only holistic connection can bring.
When you smile at me, I am young again, it is Christmas, there are gifts under the tree and an untouched blanket of snow on the ground.
You smell like home even though I have never known your scent before, yet when I hold you it is a warm blanket in a pine-scented cabin well worn with age, the fire is crackling, and we are sitting on the  leather couch which is much too old, splintering seams and cracked brown cushions.
When I am near you, I hear but one refrain, that I am falling in love with you, so wholly and completely, in the way the color of your eyes so gently touches the color of your skin, the way that your freckles cannot be compared to stars— that is too common a likening, but rather to each instance which has made me rush deeper and deeper into you… beautiful, effortless you.
The way you speak entrances me, how you pronounce your “s”s and your “rums” (rooms) and your laugh, the kind of head-thrown-back, teeth out belly laugh that people try so hard to emulate, that is ascribed to the most lovable storybook characters, but which I have learned is a hallmark of your effervescent, overflowing joy.
When I am with you, I am so present it hurts, yet I am safe, I am understood, I am seen in ways that only a coveted few experience in their lives.
I am falling in love with you, for you are Christmas and pine trees and laughter, you are staying up too late and stargazing and adventure, you are creek water that is far too cold but far more refreshing, you are holding hands in the sweltering heat and wearing white shoes on muddy hikes, you are astonishing. And I hope desperately that you know it.