Nice Boys and Girls

Nice boys find nice girls.
Clean cut boys
checkered buttoned down
solid bowtie
twice elbow patch
khaki/blazer combo.

Nice boys with
Quiet girls
popping their prescriptions while
the cat is away
on
business.

The rest of us -
Ruffians,
Rapscallions,
we are left with
dreck.
Meat for
the hounds of
hell.

In the dark
we entangle and scrape
eating the soul first and
the heart
last.

The big ending,
our grande finale,
another notch
on the
bedpost.

Heroes in
the revolution of
mediocrity
and
hope lacking
night.

A missed connection for "blonde flautist"

You look like her.
You don't know that you do
and
if I told you,
you wouldn't know what
I was talking
about.

But I saw you
and
I gotta say
it ripped my guts
straight up
the middle.

You look just like her.

Its in the little things.
Porcelain skin,
enchanting eye,
subtle nose.

But you are not her.

You are better and
you are gentle.

You're the type that goes home and
makes your husband dinner.
You never look sideways
and you dream
of produce
car seats
and baby's
firsts.

You buy tiny clothes
that say "my mommy loves me"
and you don't wear white after
labor day.

You seldom drink and
when you do
its just one before bed time
at a reasonable
hour.

You look like her but you aren't
her.
You would never cut a man to pieces
and send his soul
to hell.

No, you are too good for that.

Purity is your middle name
and in a prior life
would have left me
dull.

Such progress.

Honestly,
I would love to smell some sweat tonight
and hear the music only lovers
make.

Two delicate wrists
one shapely navel
and a salted nectar
fit for
kings.

Though I feel so dry and isolated

I used to live in a studio apartment
on the corner of fourth and broad.
The floors were wood and the walls
were cracked with smoke and age.
The plumbing drip-dropped incessantly
and mostly I laid around
waiting for death.

I had epic hangovers in that room,
sickness unparalleled.
I took drugs,
I wrote words and
I drank.
Every night I
drank.
I drank with the best of em.
I slept with strangers
and bought stock in
Philip Morris and
I drank with the best of em.

It's funny how people glamorize this way of living.
As if there is some sort of heroism in failing
miserably.
"Such an artist, man!"
You got it brother -
headache
vomit
and crooked
spine:
art personified.

After I collapsed on my parent's bathroom floor
at twenty eight years old,
I decided that Hemingway,
Buk,
Kerouac,
and the rest of the boys
could die how they wanted
but
it wasn't for me.

So
I shop organic,
I hit two kinds of gyms,
and try to get eight hours.

I am no Hemingway,
Buk,
or Kerouac (the latter being a blessing in my opinion)
but I'm alive and
they
aren't.

One good ankle
ready for
war.

Lifeus Interruptus

I've only got one good ankle
left.
Well, the right but only one
left.
Broke the tip of my fibula
Can't walk,
Can't climb,
Can't work,
just lay.
Lay all day.

I sit with Buk,
catching up on old times.
Got some Joyce
and some old religious texts.
Pills and prostration
and boredom.
I thought about drinking -
you can at least do that while seated stationary,
but instead I cooked an omelette.
Took me darn near an hour
as I hopped around
like a retarded
roo.

So hey, if you need me
you'll find me here
getting fat on raw cacao
and
dreaming of handholds
on
high.


I would be remiss if I resisted.

"I don't deserve to be this happy."

I feel lighter.
The world weighs its heavy but
I feel
lighter.

Today I strolled
down the sidewalk
with a fine beaned brew
(How pretentious)
but -
the sunlight man,
THE SUNLIGHT,
it found me and
it left me warm,
content,
and healthier than I've felt in
years.

Lunch with Sasha,
a conversation with a shopkeep
about the demise of small town USA,
seductive barristess with ironic glasses
and auburn hair that falls in waves,
a pleasant Saturday afternoon,
I hold them close
and begin to see
a future -

Devoid of death
and the stench of rot
with a hopeful heart
and an honest,
albeit tentative,
rumour of
a smile.


Give me moments.

Send it Onsight

I
I
I
on the wall high
see down below
encouraging faces.

Calling out
"Nice!"
as my toe finds hold
or my fingers wrap around
the jug.

Crags crush the digits
and callouses form
alongside scratches on knuckles
yea, they be
war wounds.

My body aches as I sit with Clif
finding much needed
gnosh
gnosh
nourishment.

"Take!"
I exclaim as I reach the end
of my rope
and float gently back
to Earth.

From up here I can see
God
painting the horizon
in amber brushstrokes
of infinite
understanding.