Books, Booze and Blues

Boozehound image from dadadreams showing a dog drinking scotch.
Image borrowed from Dadadreams

John Lee Hooker says whiskey and women,
the blues man before asks for another pint.
Pour me a tall glass of that liquid summer
down the hatch and off into the night.
Pounding embers of wisdom shed into fluid form
its time to get wasted to the tune of a misfire
and the sobbing caterwauls of mans plight.
Joy measured into shared company is compounded
misery dissipates in that carefree state. .
Spider Robinson says that Callahan’s is the cure
that telepathic understanding would make us pure.
Three shots of jack and the curtains reveal
magic bullets in glass containers of sin.
Esoteric breakdown of barricades sitting strong
imagining the beauty in words as music hits the song.
Dusty lungs coughing out something foul
to the satisfaction of another cigarette horked down
sitting numb eyed in a daze that seems to follow.
Chest sits warm in dispassionate easy grace
somber living never gets you to these places
never breathing deep enough to indulge in phantom chases.
Down memory lane and into the brambles
a stumbling mess of skull fucked cobwebs
and woven disasters of recollection branches.
Drop those spiders on my spirit and proud face
its not for nothing that they call it a sad display.
But here I’ll sit until the noonday sun
calls out my moon tanned skin for daytime fun.
Polish the bottle child and don’t leave a drop
there’s a ride to be ridden this evening,
no conductor to guide us
and no idea where it stops.





Infectious

Infectious mood imagery.

Sardonic reserves of time kept patience
blending outward in rippling shades of hatred.
Baby, you’ve got that heart shaped gaping wound
says you’re bathed in longing for now not soon.
Nothing moves faster than a synapse firing off kilter
blistering brain waves melting downwind all splintered.
If the days were longer and I could taste your fears
all that we’d share could be understanding made clear.
So if you’ll touch your enthusiastic distaste to mine
lets go passe with anticipation and the cheapest wine.
Show me your ugly that I might gag and spew
my own redolent virus of loving life all over you.

Empathy

Blended souls.

Witticism fades on dribble soaked lips
caught halfway between quip and piss poor joke,
snagged in realization that the statement is not desired.
Flagrant display following an ineffectual attempt
to display the degree of empathy passed across,
mirror the affection and nurturing that is so foreign.
Scrub out those Golems whispering in thunderous tones
where they sit perched atop your clay built heart
you’ve deluded yourself into believing beats so strongly.
Open yourself to a differing of feelings,
a roughshod pillaging of your isolated innocence
protecting you as thistles would from the harm beyond.

I STAND WITH DARKNESS! – JASPER KERKAU — The Writings of Jasper Kerkau

Powerful writing in the vein of personal identity when faced with “to normalize or not” decisions like I’ve been wrestling with. One talented SOB and the grandmaster over at Sudden Denouement.

Drone Boy Reflects

To the top mother fucker.

There is a gaping pressure to perform
and become something more inline
with the standard expectation
that we all face daily. To become
a contributing and upstanding
shill to the mockery lifestyle of
the norm. Where an unabridged story
of what life has really been like
would cause discordant gasps
and choking on $7 coffees. A land
of spreadsheets and data with endless
phonecalls and emails to confirm
that we are all part of this droll
and seemingly futile empire of dreams.
Each moment will be etched as gray
as the moment prior and only
punctuated by the sycophantic
bleating that denotes contrived success.
But there can be joy milked
from every endeavor, every adventure
and journey of any kind. For all I lament
the necessity of this change
I recognize that this, as so much else in life,
is temporary in passing. A gateway
to attain a degree of comfort for myself
and those that I care deepest about.
Walking through the door framed
in expectations is a moment of sacrifice
and service to the good nature of love
where we are willing to endure,
seek to excel, survive and adapt
all for the promise of a more easy smile.
Once the game begins, I enjoy the race
rat or otherwise. I’m programmed
to enjoy the chase, the thrillingly mundane,
the average existence. In some ways
I know the unsuspected truth of experience,
let it guide into appreciation for opportunities
and a day not on the street or going hungry.
For the leakless roof overhead
the potential for participating in the world.
I hate the side of me that is drooling
at having funds available and the luxuries
that they provide. Its almost as though
my inner monsters haven’t been sated,
are waiting for the next opportunity to scorch
away the meat and tender outline
of my flesh gone to pasture in the haze
where hard living is the only pleasure to be found.



Barefoot Lottery Winner Injects Crack Cocaine

An ex-girlfriend stole my shoes once. By breaking in through the floor level hotel room window I was in while I was preoccupied with injecting another fifty units of liquefied crack and vinegar. I even came out when I heard the noise. All I was capable of doing however, was to stare blankly while trembling under the pressures of the locomotive that was my heart careening off the rails inside my head. Didn’t even say anything, just stared.

              It was a bizarre occurrence to be sure. I could only fuzzily sketch out how I had l had hefted her bodily not 30 minutes previously–out into the hallway following what was a reasonable argument taking on unreasonable levels. Now she was snaking out the window to my room dragging behind a pair of black and white Nikes that happened to be my only pair of shoes I had brought.

              Earlier that day I had seen my children for the first time in more than a year. At a supervision center I had ridden the buses and trains for eight hours to get to. Just one hour that I paid for out of pocket. They looked beautiful, he was handsome, she was angelic.

              Far more than I could take

              My ex-wife had structured things so as to ensure I would have to return to my old stomping grounds of New Bedford, MA and this dingy facility if I wanted any access to the kids at all. It was the same city I had desperately sought to get away from during my attempts to get sober. Aside from my children, there was nothing there but the grime and filth and needle strewn streets and shit memories and traumas and fuckups and locations and people I didn’t want or need anything to do with.

                 I had won $10,000 on a scratch it a few weeks before, something that I never thought would happen though I had kept gambling on them periodically for most of my adult life. I had started a new job a few months previously as well. I was living in a halfway house and had been there for nearly 6-months, longer than I had stayed anywhere in several years now. Things were upbeat with many reasons for optimism and putting nose to grindstone while enjoying some happiness for once.

                After seeing the kids I broke down. I knew how much of their absence in my life was my fault, both before and the recent inability to clean up my act.

                I checked into a hotel and managed to track down my ex-girlfriend.

                She was doing amazing, clean, signed up for school to become a certified drug and alcohol counselor—she was really putting the pieces of her life back together again.

                I don’t know if I showed up with the drugs to the hotel and met her, or ordered them after we got there. I do remember using the inside of a hardened blue glasses case as my mixing surface for the rocks. It was good stuff, probably should have just been smoking it, but once you progress to the needle it’s something of an end all be all.

                You mix crack with vinegar or another highly acidic agent to break it back down to water soluble form. I used Braggs Apple Cider with “The Mother” because it was rich in amino acids and somehow in my addled puddle of a brain that meant it was better to use for these particular purposes. That and it reminded me of making salad dressing at the home I had once owned.

                Shot after shot after shot, ringer after ringer after ringer. All she wanted to do was cuddle up and maybe read some of the book she was studying from with me.                

                Rock, vinegar, mix, pull-up, vein, red flash, push plunger, go lightheaded, gasp, nearly orgasm, fall slowly when short gulping air, wind up sitting on the edge of the bathtub shaking head to clear the spots from vision and WHUMWHUM from my ears, rubbing quickly inflating arms to try and minimize the swelling.

                Lost in and to a ritual, there was no mind being paid to anything else but the same rinse and repeat exercise as had just played.

                I realized things had escalated rather dramatically when the chocolate cake was flew past my head, She came at me with those sharpened nails of hers, tried to grab the drugs and throw them in the toilet. Failing that, my ears and face were a good enough post to thud into.. Holding her up against the wall so she would stop ripping at my face, getting spit in my eye before throwing her out into the hallway. I was callous and cruel and willfully ignoring the pointed reality of what I had been doing and how it must have felt to watch me self-destruct so viciously.

                Then she stole my shoes.

                I had smashed my cellphone earlier that evening in some bizarre fit of rage over something seemingly trivial. Thrown it so hard against the wall the mental housing of the iPhone had crumpled as the screen shattered.

                I used the hotel’s lobby phone to call a taxi who took me to get a pair of flip flops at a pharmacy and take me to the hospital for the cuts on my face. The idea of just grabbing some first aid for myself at the pharmacy never even crossed my mind. For quite some time I had become accustomed to just going to the hospital when things had gotten to be too much and I was dehydrated, or crazy from lack of sleep, or desperate for another rehab. It was second nature.

                They thought I was there for chest pains after taking my pulse rate. The EKG came back okay and they let it slide though.

                Eventually I made it back to the hotel.

                The wall in the bathroom was covered in chocolate cake, towels were laying all over the floor. I knew “it” was going to fall apart again with a twisting certainty in my gut born of seeing the same thing happen over and over. Different implosions, different actions at least—but the same result no matter what. Isolated, lonely, confused, ashamed and embarrassed, it never seemed to change.

                When I kept shooting coke for the next two days and had to resign my position I was barely even surprised.

The Final Argument of Lovers

Fickle sentiments with rusted diamond edges,

he said she said metronome bullshit breaking waves,

dividing in measured wedges.

Diatribes and verbal lacerations,

hurt soaked souls harmonizing in

beatdown rhythms instead of conversations.

You don’t know the depths to which I’ve gone,

the lengths of patience for love

you feel mislead like this was a siren song.

The end is racing towards us brutal fast

the thought that hateful statements

might be the last interaction is the worst

a feeling like nails in spine

an unending panic attack.

There Is Strength in Our Stories: Crushed Petals – Kelly Glover

Powerful, beautiful, moving and thought provoking even to a full mind like mine which usually misses the nuances of sexism in our daily cultural interplay. Great piece from a talented writer. #whisperandtheroar #kellyglover

Whisper and the Roar

Women are silent flowers
Prettiest when quiet
We do not wilt
When they crush our petals
Strip our leaves

Our divine feminine roots
Remain and regenerate
Exquisite thorns sharpen

We are walking targets
With bullseye breasts
Shot with shame
From the moment of fertility

The blood of life
Natural as breath
Yet taboo table talk

Be a beauty, wear lipstick
Just not that particular shade
Of sunburnt whore

Look nice, paint your nails
But not the same dark red
That will stain his sheets
When he’s had his way with you

Why don’t we report our rapes
Our assaults
Our complaints
Flowers don’t speak
When bees steal their pollen

As the last blooms are spent
A new season buds
We are flooded
Drowning in courage and confidence

Flowers look best in a bouquet
The more we gather
The more beautiful we become
Holding up each other
By our weakest branches

View original post 85 more words

Heartbreak Happens

Too true.

Detest me.
Prevent me.
Direct me.
Understand this isn’t because I love the control,
tt’s because I’m comfortable under thumb.
Glassed over with your capable patrols,
I dream of places where you can’t come.
Starken my blistered eyelids into black,
soothing my hopeless windows into life.
Border my shutters with metal as a rack,
twist out the snips and set them on my strife.
I’d adore you in a thousand ways,
until the sun melted skin to butter.
I”ll adore you for a million days,
until you burn my offerings for another.
Supplant me.
Scrub me.
Deviate me.
A love song played on sickly notes,
I’d choke the lies out as they die in my throat.
Play fragrant music that offends the nerves,
disturb the inoculated innocence I sought to preserve.
Wrap on tightly around the collar,
building up bricks laid as cannon fodder.
Sing back the rhymes I hope will carry through,
but it’s all waste and wasteland even to you.
Describe me.
Vilify me.
Sharpen me.
A knife edge on razors surface,
culls back the meat so plentiful with purpose.
Strips back the layers of beautiful sin,
exposes righteously the soul within.
Expounding virtuous betrayals,
never to be found despite the trails.
Leave me.
Spit me.
Vomit me.
I was never what was good for you,
and now I’ll live marred forever,
lost in this lonely zoo.

Homeless Idols

House the Homeless - from Council to Homeless Persons
Truth.

Dystopian cartwheels in the caterwauling life we lead
staring constantly at the satisfaction all around.
Bitching occasionally to satisfy unmet desires
that we struggle to attain even at unreasonable cost.
The hunt for happiness overwhelms the basics
and sometimes its worth it whatever the price.
Disciples of a daily rut where we stay stuck and mired
deeply in the mud of a situation not planned for.
In the moments of joy where our desire for completion
coincides with our faithful love and devotion,
we find a peace despite the discord that is without compare.
In the moments where we falter under the weight
surviving as only survivors can and are willing to do,
we have to remember the strength we share to stumble on.
Nothing becomes the norm and requests for aid
cut as a degrading act that dehumanizes us further.
Outlasting the shame of each failure and the disgust it brings
resolutely waking each morning to the grim gray of sameness.
As upper class homeless we are on the outskirts,
enjoying luxuries like cold running water and a toilet,
that the rest of goddamn society imagines are god given.
Fear that the envy of our possessions will lead to thievery
leads us to close the door and have knives on hand.
Eating another can of soup in mid-summer heat
because the soup kitchens provide cans and bread regularly
and its too goddamn expensive to purchase a real meal.
Endlessly pretending that things will just fix themselves
because the reality of work necessary to get out of this situation
is beyond daunting, it’s easier to capitulate and get high.
Holding tight to special items because they are memories
encapsulated in the fur of a stuffed animal or favorite shirt.
When you’ve lost it all so many times before
the littlest things can have such an enormous significance
you might even indulge in a treasure box for safe keeping.
Solid week long stretches without bathing
because the $7 per person to shower at the truck stop can’t be found.
People look at you with mixed contempt and confusion
because if you dress nicely and present well
it defies logic that you should be in such a predicament.
Putting on makeup diligently just to feel pretty for a moment
scrape the grunge of sweat stained skin stickily from your body.
Oh yes, there is freedom to be found if you chose to indulge
and let the wash of illicit and irregular activities become your home.
A beer and some vodka to wash down the weather and heat
along with the anxious discord of stress over the unknown of tomorrow.
A shot or a bowl of glass to provide focused determination
the confidence to strive for success into the oncoming crush
or an opportunity to zone out and lose days at a time without emotion.
Some black tar to sleep peacefully and stay dazed
no thought and no fear, no nothing at all because you’ve gone dead inside.
Its a slide down into a pit of needles and loss
where the bottom can always fall out and take you lower,
lower than you ever imagined possible in such insidious ways.
Bravo to those that soldier their way out of the muck
find themselves a spot of sanity and personal identity
allow themselves the grace of overcoming through grit.
Fucking monsters of life having been torn through the gutter
when they stand proud and defiant despite their obstacles
applaud those hard mother fuckers that didn’t give in,
defied all the odds and managed to rejoin the world on their own terms.