That millionth drunk text
read it in a semi-sober condition and was
impressed with the impeccable grammar and syntax,
as well as the quite concise and condense content -
far superior to any dry writing.
she replied, like many often do, with a simple
“I’m just gonna let you read it when you sober up,
before I even say a word”…
as if I actually give a damn about your words;
the text was the product of a hazed mind
under the influence of music, beer, bourbon,
and an accidental glimpse of your photograph.
the mails I once sent you are to be published,
our story for the world to see, my name on a fucking book—
I won’t make a penny out of it, but that’s another story,
for another time.
I recall all the drunk texts I’ve sent—to former love affairs,
to strangers, to friends; almost everyone in my life
has at least one drunk text from me to show.
you’re not special; not by far.
you bothered respond; I chuckled,
wrote this lowly poem to get the whole thing out of my system.
I’m going back to drinking.
with the reply out of the way, I can focus on real writing.
it’d be fun to know how you felt when you read it
for a future short story,
but it’d mean contacting you again on a serious note.
that’d be bothersome
to my drinking and new love affairs.
Moonlight Drinking
still searching for the heavyweights
sitting in a bar all night long,
throwing back whiskey and beer not to get
wasted
and get a life,
but to forget the misery surrounding them.
do you remember,
Emily,
when we did all that,
and so much more?
four months drunk, not a single moment sober;
even though you worked
and I had to attend language courses.
last night,
in a bar with a vast collection
of whisk(e)y.
five glasses of bourbon later:
“I'm hungry, let's go eat,”
the plea of one friend.
“I'm driving, can't drink more,”
the excuse of another.
nothing.
they had some,
they gave up.
where are real heavyweights
that never quit,
but wait for their liver to quit on them?
I'm still looking.
nothing.
nowhere.
and I drink alone.
being patient with my friends,
choking down beers and bourbons fast
hoping to rediscover what I lost
when I saw you sitting dead
next to me on a stained blue couch
that is now resting at some
garbage center,
friendless and empty,
with all the memories still
imbued in the fabric
stained by melting junk and dripping ice.
you're gone, forever;
I still miss your smile,
your touch,
your
eyes.
nowhere.
the bars are empty.
the bottles full.
only one glass.
nothing.
we drank one case of beer daily,
drained gin bottles,
vodka bottles,
bourbon
bottles.
four months drunk.
six months high.
nine months in love.
one afternoon was enough
to lose
everything.
since then, I’m
searching for someone like you.
there's none.
all alone.
in the dark,
drinking.
remembering
and
forgetting.
Drowned in the sea of Bourbon
search teams failed, they went missing;
there’s nothing out there.
(bars filled with light drinkers,
where have all the heavyweights gone?)
ukuleles played in the distance,
a lighthouse somewhere damn afar!
(begone! leave me the fuck alone!!)
a drink, a boat,
something; to escape.
evacuate.
nothingness; into which she’s gone,
swimming peacefully amid the monstrous sharks of
erased yesteryears.
(expensive bourbon; the sweet poison of youth,
all the memories. the times. the moments.)
where to go next?
is there a destination?
NO the shout of every ghost.
(all forever erased. permanently.
nothing to strive for,
no dreams remain standing)
it’s all we ever had,
a passionate love and a lethal vice.
(we kissed for the first time in that lowly dive
we both loved so much; I nearly stopped visiting
after her funeral.)
we’re all gone;
it’s just that some
are further down in the tunnel
than the rest.
Tears of Brutal Nights
too many tears had stained
the blue couch heartlessly
thrown away six months ago;
are they still imbued in the fabric,
regardless of what happened to the couch
in the recycling center?
can’t help but recall
all the tears caused by false promises,
by substances and booze,
of broken love,
of dead-end pursuits for romance.
all the shadows I saw
back then, when I sat at my desk to write
and through bourbon and meth vision
saw them seated as a jury,
eager to drop the (sledge)hammer.
it’s all gone;
alas, the ghosts remain somewhere near,
always lurking,
and new ones are to be created
on a new couch, new bed,
in a new apartment;
hopefully sometime soon,
but who knows in this doomed country I call home?
the young and the hopeless,
a generation born dead
and their collective spirit is already traveling through
other universes,
toward undiscovered destinations to start
anew.
I don’t have tears left
for past flings;
only for the one that died
and the one that had enough with my destroying the body to keep the soul alive.
the rest of the ghosts remain further away,
patiently waiting for their chance to creep back into my mind and life.
nothing to do
but to drink and erase old memories
and form new ones that
will eventually be forgotten.
endless circle,
like a dog chasing its tail,
yet, I’m having fun
so why stop?
the bourbon river flows,
the mind grows lighter,
the body heavier;
elevated soul, new vision,
same old view.
back and forth,
jumping to and fro
past and future homes, embraces, promises;
one desire, the single constant in
a rollercoaster continuously renovated.
Nothing’s working anymore
long gone are the days
of the dive bars,
the watering holes of
rundown neighborhoods;
no more weekends spent watching
pro-wrestling and
averaging 30 bottles of beer per day.
the ungodly sunrise mornings
of intense cooking are
hazy memories of a past lifetime.
can’t go back to the days I’ve known so well,
an apartment tainted with heartbreak and spike memories
has a new tenant; I’m gone,
not even a flash memory for the deaf walls.
drowning sorrows with poisoned whiskey in fancy nightclubs,
looking for meaning in waitresses that smile suggestively
for the tip and perchance a brief kiss.
the rest are gone;
the rundown motels,
escaping strange apartments in the middle of the night
while high on hash and drunk on gin.
hollow mornings of no substance,
empty walls with no tales to tell;
darlings of old
forgotten, erased,
thrown in the crackling bonfire.
nothing’s left standing,
only ruins surround me;
chasing ancient spirits,
ignoring modern muses and angels.
still haunted by one;
in my dreams I often see her
praying for another kiss
that will never come.
only temporary escapes;
permanent midnight—
it never went away.
and not even gin and bourbon
can help the lighthouse break through
the misty night
for a brief second of sanity.
