Cold Water Flat

It was near 2 am, his third rum-and-coke almost gone, the sounds of Muddy Waters, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Buddy Guy, and Etta James croonin', bluesin', and groovin' from his record player on the spare chair in the corner - the record covers and sleeves strewn about the floor a-mix-with empty wine bottles, crushed and ashed cigs, paper-wad piles, and the occasional crumb-infested dish and cup. It had been less than a week since his fiancee had left with his brother - and still he was propped against the cold-water-flat wall which his mattress lay against on the floor. Life was seeming to suck and spin-out, all the while keeping him around for new hells, and yet, with each new cig, each new idea crumpled into piles, each less-coke-and-more-rum concoction poured down his throat, he seemed to live for another night - until his new nightly ritual began again.

When he wasn't pissed-drunk on the floor, he worked day-shift for security at one of the last remaining Five-and-Dimes in flat Midwest Ohio. Hardly anyone came into the store, so he could sneak in the odd drink-and-smoke break during the day - his shift lasting from 9 am till 10 pm, sometimes he'd sneak out around 6 pm and grab a cold draft at the bar down the road, dodging work for the last four hours as draft after draft piled up, shot and shot, drink after drink until the bartender threw him into a cab, paying the cabbie out of pity yet again, where the cabbie threw him back against the wall on the mattress, where he would reach over and pop open a bottle of coke, pouring it and some rum he had lying around into a cup, his ritual beginning again.

However, tonight, as his cheap wrist-watch beeped at 2:30, he slumped down into bed, looking up at the roof above him, mold and water damage threatening the roof to cave in at any minute. His past week playing again for the fourth time that night - his fiancee giving him the news, his brother wanting his hand in blessing and congratulations, the rushed marriage, the rice being thrown and the hand-me-down coupe with cans tied with strings speeding away from the church as his mother cried and his father held her close. He remembered walking down the road some, past shops and churches - couples coming out of every wood work, seemingly to spite him, Fate thumbing his mockery into his face. He found the bus stop, and paid the fee, heading into the big city a few hours away, renting a cheap dive of a flat, and holing up - wallowing and drinking away into self-pitied hells.

He closed his eyes, the alcohol sloshing away the last of the pain, the night finally swallowing him up.

It was near 4 am, his record player playing silence from the chair in the corner, empty rum and wine bottles littered around, broken and given-up-on dreams crumpled into little paper mountains, smoked cigs cold on the floor, dishes piled up near the door - when the roof fell in, second floor becoming the new first. He never woke to feel it, never woke to hear his end approach around him, he never knew what was to come of him, never knew that on the floor above him; in their cozy little honeymoon flat, his brother and ex-fiancee were asleep in bed when their floor caved in dropping them down into a piss-hole of a room, where only the landing woke the newly-weds.

Life and Fate got him down, but only at the end did they get him, in the cold water flat...

Why Poetry? (An Addict's Confession)

Why poetry? 
Why not other short stories or novels or plays? 
Why poetry?

A poem can be as long as centuries of lives,
or as short as a single breath,

it can be throwing you into the deep end of realism,
or it can be the relaxation of muscles
because you know how to swim in it's waters,

it can be images of vast spaces of galaxies and stars and nothingness,
or it can be exploding kaleidoscopic orgasmic everything.

Why poetry?

It can be slower than the soft rain dribbling
and trailing down your windshield on a cold autumn day.

It can be faster than the nearly
forgotten dream bringing a grin to your face.

Why poetry? 
Short stories and novels are truest works of literary wit and wonder - 
they can show the tiniest cracks on the facade of the perfect life.

Ahh, yes, that is true for those, but poetry can do that and so much more -
poetry has the ability
to make the loneliest man dance in a hall with strangers,
to make souvenirs of the memories of the first kiss
with the girl who had cherry lip gloss on her lips,
to make late-night vulgar bodily seances
to the boy who could make his fingers dance in just the right spots
that would make your body, your lips,
your fingers and toes quiver and tingle
with excitement and nervousness
and lust.

Poetry may be as old as dirt, and my not as be as prominent
as your King
or your Meyer
or your James,
but every few years, some poem, some person comes along and shakes things up;

Whispering songs about themselves,
giving great barbaric yawps,
comparing love to shrubbery,
retelling stories of wars and attacks,
telling us how the greatest minds of generations were hungry, mad, and naked...

Why poetry?

Because everyday you go through life
breathing in harshness, sadness, grim realities...

but you breathe out bittersweet poetry,
and that's
my
drug.

Advice from Strangers

Just as everyone asks the 100 year old men and women
how they lived for so long,
I ask the every man and woman
how they survived depression,
madness, thoughts of anger and
utter despair.

Raw eggs, a life away from sugar and nicotine,
no sex since the 20's -
will the old say,

Long walks, staring off into sunsets and counting stars,
hearing the truth in the music and seeing the lies in life -
will the survivors say.

Live and love yourself, they'll all say,
jump on the last train, or plane, or bus to anywhere,
find out where the secrets of the big cities
breathe, sleep, fuck, and play,

It isn't about sitting back, and looking in the past,
you've got to lift your head up,
get up out of the gutters where you stare at the stars,
and take the knife out of your hands,
put the pills and drink down,
and start walking -

Move to a new town,
Meet new friends,
Eat new foods,
Love someone new.

The whole point isn't to stare into the past
to divine great moments of the future,
it isn't the point to relive painful moments of our lives,
flogging ourselves with barbs from breakups.

How did you live,
when you were at life's peak,
when it was at it's worst,
I'll ask -

We opened our eyes, and finally
learned to live,
they'll say.

Cosmic Intentions

I can not imagine a world without you,
it would be dark and lonely.
I would not want to live in such a place -
for you are not just some star in the heavens,
you are my sun,
with which you give me life.

How could I not fall for her -
a love of brun and noir,
for when the sun shines
through her hair -
passions, intensity,
fire and smoke burn through,
raven's wings breathe in.

It's not fair, a lover so far away,
because of you my demons remain at bay,
I've given offering of sanity and age
but no matter how close I get,
you seem to stay close, but too far away.

I can not imagine a world without you,
it would be cold and lifeless.
I would not build a house or home there -
for you are not just some girl on this earth,
you are my everything,
with which I measure my heartbeat.

A Siren Against the Storm

And there we were,
standing only feet apart,
but it felt like you were
oceans away, with only
a little ferry of our love
to keep our islands afloat.

When you turned & walked
away, every levee & dam
broke, spilling over my
guards, tearing down my
walls, washing my
heart away.

It's Over

You stole the thunder out of my chest,
the lightning died from my heart,
the rain fell heavy, flooding my eyes.

There's a thing about dreams -
             even nightmares are
             in your wildest fantasies.

A Breath from Our Destiny

We're standing on the red brick road,
approximately ten to nowhere,
five from anywhere,
East form the far-reaching horizon,
West from any form of journey -

We are standing on a plane of reality,
knowing that with any step in any direction
we break the spell of momentary peace from
our
orenda.

We step towards each other,
East & West finally meeting,
a breath from our destiny,
the veins of the bricks finally pumping
as we take each other into our arms
and
-