a glass of Wild Turkey withholds way too many
I remember sitting on a blue foldout couch, a
between Emily and me.
we were only 19, young, full of dreams, hopes,
booze and junk.
Ill never make it past 30, I told her
during a real bad
night. like Hank, 29s the
back then, 30 seemed so far down the future;
an impossible age.
oh, well make it, she reassured
while refilling our dirty glasses.
now, Im just a year shy from that 30.
and she never made it past 21.
draining Wild Turkey now, too; all too close to
the age whiskey took the outlaw poet away,
all too hopeful well share the same fate
and meet in a corner of the Bar in the sky.
cigarette hanging from the lips, staring at the grey
all those memories; from a time that felt itd be
after Emily, I couldnt love anyone the same way.
some tried to penetrate the stony exterior Id placed
my heart in -
one managed to drill some holes - but, it was always
to the first love.
to that young girl, who exhaled her last breath on my
chasing dragons in flaming meadows, wishing to forget
wed just killed our unborn child.
dives and booze claimed my soul ever since, and the
the only drinking partner I care for.
the bell rang to signal the end of my fifth round with
the empty lowball, the girl in the bikini pranced around
round six, fight! why do you drink so much? a
what else is there to do?
youre gonna kill yourself; die
thats the point. glass drained; round
she arched her eyebrows and bulged her eyes; perhaps, she
a glimpse of the Devil hunkering down on the stool next to
dont you want to live? grow old? youre
gonna die young!
thats the point. I repeated, growing
tired of the repetition.
the Devil grinned and got us another round; Hes the
that doesnt want me to die young. perhaps why
Hes kept me alive
during all the suicidal blackout nights.
if my liver fails, I told the flabbergasted
woman, Ill die knowing
I lived. can you say the same?
she didnt respond; she slithered a few stools away,
leering at me to ensure
I didnt follow.
I didnt. I didnt care.
I downed Jim and tasted Christines lips. she also
wanted me to live
healthily, to ensure I remained around for more than three
in all honesty, she might have been a good enough
without her, I think three decades are too much.
sinking down Jim and Jack and Wild Turkey and Four Roses
no money for Makers Mark. hoping to go the same way
as Hank and Dylan.
only without their fame; perhaps, theyll be waiting
at the Bar.
Drunk in the Rain
during one of the many storms, trying
to get back home, drunk beyond the minds
frustrated for the choices made (or not made),
the one true embrace from yesteryears lost in heated
cursing at drivers, hailing cabs and swearing at
scared drivers speeding away. flipping the bird to
trying to pick up fights with soulless bastards not
to engage in pointlessness.
as the rain falls hard, clothes soaked, hair greasy,
water dripping down from the unkempt beard.
nowhere to go, theres no real place to call home;
the dark room once housing love, passion, and
is now gone, someone else resides between the four deaf
that witnessed it all, silently.
longing for the bed whereupon she slept, sitting down at
the cold, wet
pavement, trying to roll a cigarette with wet papers,
and blurry vision. nothing comes out of it, a mashed up
a drag from which brings forth the urge to vomit.
myriads of nights spent like this, in other streets,
familiar state of mind, loathing everything around me,
and especially everything within me. desperate for
the warm embrace I lost too many years ago to the
no dreams of improving, of changing; no reason, no need,
no desire. drunk in the nights, hangover every morning,
struggling to get by, money just enough for the nightly
they all urge me to change, to become a better person,
trying to convince me I have all the tools to make it.
I dont care, nor do I believe their nicely told
another drink poured, drinking at home, away from
idiots and the rainy streets. all alone,
listening to music and the echoes of whispering ghosts
struggling to reach me.
I light a cigarette and sit back, rereading this awful
poem that will
get too many rejection slips; its okay though.
Ive learned to live
with it, with everything. a long sip, my bodys warm,
my mind slightly more numb.
nowhere near good drunk, too close to getting mean drunk
wonder what Ill break tonight. Ive nothing
expensive, nothing of worth or value.
only memories, and they wont be erased.
rolling down the hills
rolling down the hills like a ball of hay
taken by the wind,
reaching untouched towns and virgin plains, staring
the continuum of time standing on the side,
a marvelous powerless god that sees the trajectories
cant change them; every days the same, it
dawns with bacteria
coming to life in the oceans and the sun sets when the
climb off the trees and land on the moon.
driving through empty highways, wind rattles the
and its freedom that bursts through the cracks. the
the guide, the sole star in the sky pinpoints
the promised stool.
and the guardian angel takes a nap a moment before
the trucker loses control of the 12-wheeler.