Watching the
whiskers
on the televsion
tonight, while drinking.
I was exultant.
Predators were fighting
the predators for
territory and the
guys ran safely
home.
I was wandering
around the city
about, i'd say
2:30, maybe 3
not sure
ultimately, it doesn't matter
those hours before dawn
really just
lbend together
to anyone not awake
and no one was awake
except for maybe
other drunks
and those trying to find shelter.
Mine was a bench outside of Jewel
it was cold
and windy.
Not too much unlike
this night, out my window
but I could feel the wind that night
it was a nice wind and
I was delighted by
the feeling of it
against my whisky warmed
cheeks. Not too long after
feeling alright
was the solace interrupted
by the fuzz out on
routine patrol.
Bastards.
I thought.
But, they have jobs too
and I consoled myself with
just another
man doing his
job.
Until, of course,
I was rolled.
Working nightly
against the odds of time
age, and the rest
I do believe that the
answer
is getting closer.
Closer.
We're all getting closer.
The predatrors constatnly
get closer to the prey.
And the prey never
realize this, until
they strike.
And strike they do.
But afterall
we're all just fighting
against odds
and some bets are surer than
others.
It had to be
in the haze
of a nother
night out
that I realized
just what exactly
what my life
would turn out
to be.
I was a poet I thought, or at best an artist
a painter of pictures and wooer of women
I was the great Fox and damn well
better all stay out of my way.
And yes, I am a painter of sorts
a painter of pictures that
i think
up
and envision myself in
and try to be like
a drifter.
Maybe then this is how it works out to be.
Not that I'm sure of it
but that's what the man next to me
at the bar
was talking about.
And IT beat the hell out of me just what
exactly it was that he was
talking about.
So I told him so.
You're talking nonsense
No the fuck I'm not you bitch
but I had ceased listening
and was focusing on
the breasts of the barmaid.
Which, was just as futile
as the conversation i had
just left til one cuffed me on the ear
and it was that damn
nonsensical bastard.
Why the fuck you lookin'
at the titties!
Can't you see my perfectly good
cock?
Listen, you fucking piece of shit.
There's better things out there than the
workings and the way things are
and man...
but I stopped. It wasn't
worth it.
The tits were still shakin'
the beer was still being poured
and I was still waiting out my days.
I had spent
many nights
wandering around in the city
of lights
and this was to be one of many now
that was spent outside of that town
It was a damn sorrowful night
and I didn't want to be sitting
on those church steps, just
south of the main drag
and I didn't want to be as
hung over as
I was
nor as poor
and if i wasn't
you
could have been
damn sure
that I would be drinking.
And not sitting here on these
steps. Thinking about the nights I've
lost and what's here now
and what is approaching
Trying desperately to get the feel of
a new city.
A quieter city.
Where they wear
polo shirts
and cuffed pants
on nights out.
And me with my dirty shirt and
jeans sitting here now
on these dammed steps
wanting so desperately
to be back home in my city.
A place
where you can get yourself some action
for the price of an old milwaukee
and a wink.
A place where
you can find yourself in a dark alley
shadow boxing,
providing entertainment
to the sterno eating bums down off
river.
And a place where
you can sleep easy
to the rhythmic sounds of a
night train, blowing its
whistle ever so
slowly as that dawn breaks
on the horizon.
In the fall
it was always
nice to
be standing on the corner
of galena and stolp
near cody's
with a fifth in hand.
Hidden, only occasionally
from the police.
Watching the sun set
on the town
a town so dismal during every other
season, so desolate
during all those other hours,
that during those fall sunsets
it would light up
and let it's bluebird out
of it's heart
to sing a song
so beautiful,
so clear, that the entire
town would be engulfed
in a bright orange flame
until the sun dropped down
and the cool fall night
took over.
The night was drawing
to a close
as last call had
just been shouted out
by the angry, large breasted
bartender.
She was one mean ass bitch
but she had a soft spot for me.
And to this day
I'm not sure if I was a charity case
or what
but when last call came
and the bar would clear
we'd still be sitting around
talking til
the clientelle had all left
and it was just us over a bottle of
whisky
her, me, and those large breasts.
We'd talk about poetry and
our bands that we were
following.
And one night she
wanted more
and more she got.
We tumbled around behind the bar
and I was working
and she was moaning
her and those large breasts.
And in all the action somewhere
her leg had knocked
the glasses
off the barshelves
and there we were, fucking
now on broken glass
and she started screaming
and i knew for sure that glass was now in my
legs
and knees
and her poor ass.
We laughed after, but it was sure as
shit hard to explain
the next
day.
Another night had
ended
and we were on our way
to the casino
the last desperate
hold out
of the wandering drunks
those with no desire
to go home
to sit in a room
and silently take their fates
and we were in no mood to meet the same
fate at that moment
in time so
there we were
3 in the morning.
Bells, sirens, hell
solid hell
and after the whisky and the kisses and fondlings in alleys on
the way
I was in no mood
to take
the hell
that we just stumbled into
and so there was the eruption
chips were flying, punches crashing
hell and misery
abounded that night
as I got escorted and thrown onto
the concrete outside
I never got my five back
and will never get the opportunity
to go back and state my wrong.
Sitting alone
in a room
at 3:15
writing out words to match the silence
echoing in this small
room
and there is no one here
but me and my typer
and the thoughts
that are coming too quickly to
get out.
And I feel sorry for those
thoughts
those abortions
desperately wanting to live
to get out before they are
abandoned but that's the way
it works. Too much and too little
and it seems
i'm always running late.
I hear the clocks
ticking
all over this room
and in the next
endless they tick
keeping time
although most are an
hour behind.
Too many
in my opinion
but they aren't mine
and I don't live
here.
There was a card
player
I knew that hailed out
of Denver
or so he told me.
He was always
talking about the
good old
days
and the pussy
and what he'd do
to the pussy
and how all the
ladies loved him
for it
and couldn't get
enough of it
and just longed
with saliva'd mouths
for his cock.
Always, he'd talk
about his
cock
how big
how throbbing
how massive.
Never once
did I see
that man
play a hand.
Sometimes it comes
up on you.
Never when you're
looking for it
and never when
you're prepared.
And brother
don't even think about
looking when you
shouldn't be looking
cuz that old man
is wise to those tricks
as well.
Oh, he'll get you
damn straight he'll
get you.
When you least
expect it.
I remember
brief moments
with my Grandfather
before he
got sick
when he'd be sitting
in his
easy chair
reading the sporting
news, as well as
the trib.
He'd sit there
listening to a saturday
ballgame
in his flannel shirt
chinos
and watch.
Reading,
laughing,
and just
enjoying his
time.
Sometimes the words
just flow
out of me
and it is
usually in
those times
that I find myself
furthest
away from
myself.
In those dark moments
when no one
is around.
And in those happy times
when the window
is open
and a coold night breeze
is blowing through
and in those places
with a nice song on the radio
that just hammers through
with the keys of the board
and the rhythm in
my
heart.
Chasing skirt was
just one
of many occupations
i had during those
roustabout years.
And on this particular
night i had been
getting slowly drunk. Knowing
that the woman i showed up with
was not coming back
with me.
And good riddance, i
thought.
Dammed to all.
It was just me and
the moon.
Success is often
based on
not what you do, nor how well
you do it.
But extreme devotion to playing the
cards of the system.
Working the angles
knowing the people
and devoting your life
to the career of success.
Worship it.
Revel in its orgies.
Suck its cock.
Because when you
wear the right shoes.
And with the proper comb of the hair.
You too
can be the man in the corner
office.
Smoking the cigar
and getting a blow from
your secretary.
The argument often
made for someone
who is unfit for society
is that they are the first
one's to deny
their problem.
However, how can one
not deny problems that don't exist?
And this
is the catch 22.
Sure, to drink a lot may have
you placed as an alcoholic.
However, to deny that you aren't
firmly places you as one,
while accepting it
doesn't?
Or does it?
It's all in his head.
Was the outcry
of the public
as they watched the men drink
themselves slowly into
oblivion.
We're doing this for their
own good.
That was the justification.
For uprooting men who didn't
have problems, but found
solutions
to the pain and suffering
and the routine waiting
for death.
No, we must
make men aware of life
so that they too can live
that they can prosper
though they
don't have
a chance.
And ice cube's chance
in hell.
To put it proper.
No we must
reform, take away
strip them naked
and expose them
again
to the brute force
of reality
minus their armor
minus their saviours
minus their dignity.
Let us expose them
all
because we
have solutions
and you damn
well know
that we
are
right.
To live in this world
is to live in pain.
The world cries
it sobs
it moans
and wishes to exist no longer
but stronger men than
it build and support and maintain
for the dignity of us all
for the future of mankind
so that they too
can go on living
in pain
in malice
in suffering
and in death.
In living death
and silent death
and for the fortunate
happy death.
For those that
linger on into the night
and those that
vanish from the dawn
and those that
are never seen nor sought
and for those
that never
had anything to begin with
and ceased looking shortly
thereafter.
Writing on
nights like this
is the answer
only for when there's nothing
left to do
no accountability
no resolution
no salvation.
Only desolation
hurt feelings
unresolved angst
and pain.
With nothing there to
talk to
and nothing
to talk back.
only dark windows
and ticking clocks
and you can't
fucking talk
to them
either.
I would like
to say
that life was
romantic
and that there were things
left worth
dying for
but anymore
i can safely
say that I'm completely
unsure of that statement
every day
a man would walk
into harm's way
and sit up at the bar
he'd pull up a stool
order an old milwaukee
and read the day's paper
for 7 hours
until they closed
and
all that time
he'd only drink
one old milwaukee
and read only
one newspaper
and nothing said.
it's all in the gut
and relying on the gut
is the best thing
a man can do
anymore
not that the gut
is all he has
but it's dammed
sure that
the gut will never
leave you
nor desert you
and it dammed sure
will never
abandon you
because the gut
relies on
you as much
as you rely on
your gut
so you'd
best dammed well
sure treat your
gut
with some dammed
respect.
I had just
finished
reading that hemmingway
called himself
a natural heavy weight
and that that
is why he required
regular meals or
else he
was hungry
well, i too
find myself
a natural heavy weight
and i too
require a rather regular
meal time
schedule
otherwise
i too find myself
left with a hunger
however, i revel in the
hunger
and i revel in
the clarity of vision
that hunger provides me
however,
old hem wrote
about his hunger
years
after it subsided
and only months
before
his death.
She stands silently
in the night
blue on blue
darkness surrounding
no.
veiling her
in that cool night
how i long
to be apart of her
world
and i find myself
lacking
in many ways
but still desiring
her
and longing
for her
words
and my words
to be one.
I've been watching
the spider
crawl
up the wall
and wondering
to myself
what exactly
there was that wasn't futile
and what there was exactly
that wasn't spendthrift
and what
exactly
was the purpose
of living life
nowadays
and it
came to me
that it just was
to live
to just pass
the time
and do your work
to start the revolution
Sitting on lawn chairs
in the grass
on the front lawn.
It's a day that happens
every year
where every year
all up and down the street
folks try to sell
their possessions
things bought years back
or just yesterday.
All bad ideas and all unwanted
so that
someone else can
have them
for a dollar, until they too
are sick of them and
they too sell them
for another dollar.
And so the cycle goes.
I would like to dream
tonight
pleasant dreams
sweet dreams.
The kind of dreams that
they tell you about when
you're a kid
the kind that you're
almost promised to have
the kind that is most
severely lacking
from my
life.
Why do the bugs come out
at night
when all things are dark, cool
comfortable.
Why do the bugs come out
and crawl around
on the ceiling and
on the floor
and flap on the curtains
bothering me
to no end
and why
do the bugs disappear during
the daylight
when everyone is gone
working their jobs
and maintaining their
existence
wby must it be
a constant hassle.
The wind blows gentle
through the window tonight.
After the morning fog and the afternoon
storms.
Now is the time for
a decent
rest
No fear or the
constant hassle
or the annoyances
of life.
The searching to
just make ends
meet
and the drive to
get ahead
at all
costs.
No.
Tonight is just the wind
and the coolness
of this room.
On some days
the writing cure does nothing
it's a fucking impotent monster
miserably sucking down
the viagra for one last
desperate
screw.
One last push into that wet cunt.
But then again.
It's on those days when the words do
start to flow
in sharp orgasmic
pulses.
That rhythm that no other
force can take hold of
that no other system can
divine.
An amazing thing unto itself
and only desperate
to everyone but the
beholder.
Days were wasted back whenI was a teen
I'd sit mystified at others
guys rubbing the shoulders
of women
and women...
letting them.
I asked one time, howe did
you do it?
Just what exactly gave a man the authorit to intrude?
Up until then I was
firmly against imposing myself into other's
lifestyle.
I was a ghost (or so my boss
would later call me)
Well, casper I'm not
and I've spent more nights drunk than I can count.
lost
forever in a midnight
dream.
The system works sort of like this:
The windows must be open. Preferably,
anything that will allow
a cross
ventilation.
Then the fan (a huge motherfucker) gets
turned on. It sits
in the ceiling and just blows.
However, the dial is tricky (yes it is on
a dial)
and unless it is turned slowly enough then
it just doesn't work and
makes a
buzzing
sound.)
That isn't my problem.
So once the fan is turned on...we move
along
in our story
...
The breeze gets sucked in through
a sophisticated system
the fan—pushing upwards
then draws the air into the house and up into the attic.
(I've never been in the attic)
From there the air goes
only where I can guess--
obviously outside the house.
But how and when is left up to speculation and
I've heard no
accurate or truthful accounts.
I remember one night in the bar
in between old fashioneds and starring
at the barmaids chest.
I poured sketchbook after sketchbook
into that bar.
Trying to find the idea. That one singular
notion that might
make it all worth
while.
And there was nothing--at least not then.
the ideas, the dreams, the longing
would come later.
Then was only temporary. Then was only the moment.
And the moment was a worthless fucking
waste of time.
And the moment
was women in their late twenties desperately trying
for something to reclaim
and something to take home.
Something to fuck and in fucking
have the moment back.
I tried desperately to avoid
the preaching like some old fashions
televangelist
but nothing doing
not for this old duck
I suppose.
But then again
what was there?
There was joy for the moment
and the few squirts after.
There was desolation,
shrouded in a dream of alcohol.
There was a life. Lost.
Longing to be found.