I
theres no
forgetting that first night
we met, that dive bar in
Aarhus, Denmark,
when Purple Rain blared
through the speakers when I
met your sparkling green
eyes. how could Ive known, at
the time, that that
random meeting would lead to the most
intense nine months of my
life, that it would
define who Id
become? ten years since your
passing, Im still
defined by your presence.
no ones replaced
the warmth of your embraces, the way
you held me when I was
too hungover to move.
even now, I dream of your
embrace. when I wake
up hungover, I picture
youre there next to me, your hand messing
my hair, and I
momentarily feel better.
II
getting into the fifth of
Plymouth, draining
it slow while I chase it
with beer, getting
delightfully drunk, I
stare at the night sky, and realize
this collection,
BoozeSongs, is all about
you, Emily. we boozed it
up every night,
for nine months we were
brilliantly drunk and high.
its almost ten
fucking years since Ive last seen you;
ten fucking years since
the Devil decided he wanted
you in his realm. we
outdrank the rotten horned bastard
one too many times and he
wanted his revenge.
he always feared me, for
reasons unknown. Ill
come for you, one day.
booze cant kill me. hard drugs
failed to do the job. one
day Ill crap my liver out and
take a seat next to you
at that poker table in the
Devils living room.
well swill Makers Mark and smoke
smuggled Cuban cigars and
cheat the horned bastard
out of everything he
owns.
well take over
hell, like we promised we would during
a tequila weekend. for
now, Im trying to erase you from
my writing, I cant.
you belong in every fucking
line. its how
its supposed to be.
youre my Jane; my
Sera; youre my Emily and one day
someones gonna play
you in a movie shown in theaters
too long after Im
dead.
III
lost in the mist of
absentmindedness, of too many
things to do yet lacking
the strength to do any,
enshrouded by thoughts
and the pressure of time,
and unemployment and lack
of cold cash, theres nothing
moving that could turn
things around. flopping about, jumping
between half-finished
short stories, lousy poems, and job
applications, finding no
strength to pursue
anything.
the words wont
flow, the beers and whiskey do but they
simply make me want to
rewatch Barfly and Leaving Las Vegas,
the sparks are dead,
trying new drinks to rekindle the
flames, to ignite the mad
dance that broke
keyboards and terrorized
neighbors and might have
even sparked revolutions
or at least meaningful
rampages.
IV
deep into my cups, I
stare at the dawning
sun, the sky turning blue
all over again; I go back to the
times wed sit in an
embrace on an algid, sandy beach,
high on crack cocaine and
rotgut,
and we watched the
dawn
of a new day. wed
always think that
one glorious someday
wed
make it.
we never did. you were
gone too early,
I never had it in me to
make it. its
fucking all
right.
perhaps.
never seemed to matter;
ever since I attended
your funeral, life
lost
meaning. every barstool I
hoist myself up
on, I expect you to
occupy
the neighboring one.
you
never
do.
I drink alone, fending
off anyone that
attempts to breach the
invisible wall I
emanate.
V
its so fucking
tempting, you know?
2am in the morning,
Ive got 3 liters of
beer in my bloodstream. I
stare at the open
window, the two-story
jump I
could perform.
so fucking
easy.
one leap, itll all
be over. Ill be
reunited with my Emily. I
know shes reserved
a seat for me at the
Devils private poker table.
my drinking buddy
doesnt want me there; hes the anchor
that prevents me from
leaping off the balcony, hes the reason
I could never jump in
front of a speeding 18-wheeler.
its so easy to do
it; I stare at the open window, the balcony rail,
all so fucking inviting.
LEAP, a voice beckons me. I stay put.
another poem to conclude,
more rejection slips to
drink away. more life to
waste.
VI
the end is nigh, almost
on sight, silent
prayers for the night
never to turn
blue, as wine goes
into
the glass, more wine to
freeze
time, to capture
effulgent moments trapped
in the eternity of
boredom.
more wine, begs the
sparrow on the window sill.
more wine, bawls the
staggering wino.
more wine fills the
glass, and things start making
sense.