Rolling down the hills
rolling down the hills of forgotten yesterdays, lost
in barrels of rotgut where children drowned and women cried
the open highway a neon sign flashes somewhere too damn afar
gunning the bike rushing to the end, the edge VISIBLE
I’m coming the doctor rides beside me two hogs bringing back
angelic destruction here we are back cower away rush to
your basements the neon sign brighter closer nothing around it
just the fucking sign no bar no dive no honkytonk no strip joint
where are the others? they’ll arrive soon patience and some PCP
can fix it all doctor’s prescription washing the drugs with wild turkey
(101, motherfucker!) and the world makes sense the edge
remains uncrossed just one step one wrong tilting of the chair,
it never takes much just one second one moment one goddamn
right decision to counter the thousand wrong ones of a lifetime spent
without purpose speeding down the highway no one around not
even balls of hay just the air the desert the road the melting asphalt
are we here yet? no, but it’s right over there and right over there
often means millions of miles away beyond the borders of
a neighboring solar system but we gun it nonetheless it’s all
there’s left the speed the air smashing against our faces
the rush of the chase of catching the right neon sign the one
pointing to the dream and the desert turns into an icy apocalypse
then into razed ruins of massive cities and the metropolises turned
into shack-infested ruins and sharks walk the land
elephants swim and rhinos fly the ballet of the dead has
arrived one functioning kidney the price of admission
gunning it away with a case of beer drunk and high on speed
speeding away from the carnivals of the breathing corpses of the
melting men the fires die down blue flames in the air mushrooms
resurface the drunken man in the corner still begs for nickels
the neon sign flashes its dying light and the voice of god compels us to
rage.
Crazy Drunk
it can happen to anyone; especially us drunkards,
if we stumble upon some money on happy hour.
still remember some of the winos I shared vino with
during winter nights in a park in Denmark; they’d
screech and yell at strangers, suddenly
storm off, or flip the bird to the sky (at God or
whatever they believed in).
at the time, I was more of a calm drunk; with sparse outbursts now
and then.
free bar at the 10-year reunion of my high school; several gin and tonics
in, they got me good.
not in a good mental place—though, I never truly was—
and eventually I lashed off; stormed off a place we went afterwards
with people I hadn’t seen in a decade, for reasons unknown.
nearly kicked the door down when I came home. wherefore,
no one will ever know.
crazy drunk; I’ve been there once or twice lately.
drinking’s the ultimate way to discover the real you,
the monsters lurking in the shadows, tormenting you
during sober times.
perhaps, I scared some old classmates off;
maybe, come next reunion, they’ll steer away.
have a few new numbers in my phone; not sure to whom they belong.
maybe, eventually, I’ll get around checking it. maybe not.
sinking tequila in the dead of the night; all alone in
the dark room, feeling right at home.
drunk, but serene drunk.
it’s people and being away from a comfortable
floor to pass out on that gets me mad.
hopefully, someone will open a free bar in my living room
sometime soon.
Green Flames
green flames leap through fissures, great cities turn
into lush jungles, ancient forests become
abandoned stone ruins—skyscrapers fall, sewers are
elevated to the clouds, gutter rats fire up
Cuban cigars—yellow plumes of smoke shoot up to
purple clouds washing away blue blood from
cracked sidewalks—lonesome man on a winding
highway, wild-haired and wild-eyed, with a shotgun
takes down all adjectives—brothers from other lives,
morose nights under exploding stars—one last night,
homes burned down, banks exploding, the high men
go low, down to the melting core—burn it down!—
burn it up!—knock it back, throw it down—flames leap
through fissures on former avenues—planes float, ships fly—
children play, men cry—pacifists bleed, soldiers drink—when the
first spaceship landed no one looked up—throughout galaxies love
was sought, it resided nowhere—“pour it strong, Jim”—the end comes!
the cry of the madman in the corner—rum to raid banks, bourbon
to conquer the thinning highway—growls, here they come—we’re
dead—no one
gives a damn.
there’s always another drink
there’s always another drink, it’s what
makes life worth living, every breath worth
drawn; that fresh, cold, tall drink at the end of the rainbow.
when all you get is shit served as gourmet overpriced meals,
you get that new fresh drink have a swig at it and feel alive,
the world suddenly and inexplicably makes sense when it didn’t
five seconds ago. there’s always another drink, at the end of
the darkening rainbow or at the disposal of the bored dull bartender
you have a swig at it, feel alive, breathe, breathe it in then fire up
a cigarette, breathe, live—the rainbow’s dead but there’s another drink
somewhere.
What’s up with poetry, man?
in the corner of the bar, hunched over a stack of cocktail napkins;
country from the speakers, only two other regulars hunkering in their booths
over cold cheap draft beer, and Jim pretended to count the bottles.
the pencil moved over the napkin like a menacing tornado destroying
cities and countries and even planets, a destructive force not even
gods can stop; felt good burning down every little cottage and every
phallus shaped skyscraper without remorse nor guilt,
destroy, destroy, dest
roy, des
tro
y
the call from below, the agonizing cries of the butchered—fry, evaporate,
liquidating companies and the unemployed fill up the gutter, all the
good mattresses and sturdy cardboxes taken, move over motherfuck
er it felt good
good tall highball, gin and tonic, slice of lemon, two ice cubes,
the magic pencil on fire, napkin after napkin more razed battlefields
mass graveyards of young dreamers that never saw life never felt a kiss
the soft womanly touch under the red of dusk
nothing produces stronger lines than weak love—the cold embrace fuels
the line, the sight of a man that lost it all scraping by for just one cold beer
away from the snow a picture worth far more than purple flowers
in orange meadows
fires rage everywhere, reddish leaping flames masquerading deformed
faces and bodies and long legs and toned abs and long blonde hair
and green eyes and hazel eyes and blue eyes all shining glistening
through the leaping flames fissures all around the earth crumbles
shatters through the walls nothing stands but tall cement walls built
when you were a baby and the gods unborn wine’s poured in some tavern
by the sea a toast from the great ancient drunkard Timocreon
he sings his lost ballads Euripides begs his gods to appear to save the day
forget it
man
“what’s up with you and poetry, man?” Crazy Linda asked, once more
trying to bum off a beer and a kiss—“not much,” I shrugged, the pencil
didn’t move away, the gaze still on the lines a drop of sweat
some blood, draining the gin and tonic going for bourbon
time for some wine of the soul and more napkins are ordered alongside
a cold draft beer some strong Four Roses and the pencil goes back to work
not destroying this time
Mak
ers’ Mar
k
Make
rs’ M
ar
k
Maker’s
Mark
Maker’s Mark
crazy, insane, madness
madness nothing else matters
the dream the top-shelf orders without having to sell a kidney
“why do you write poetry? did you become a fag?” she insisted
“no, damn it!” I slammed the counter, Jim’s feet left the sticky wooden floor.
“poetry’s power, it lives inside booze. ask Dylan, Buk, ask them all,
even Kerouac had it in him. you drink, the words
make no sense, but the world does.
and, in the end, it’s what we need.”
she slithered away with her drink, I smirked, drank up,
ordered another round.
napkins came, worlds were destroyed,
putting it all down for the future generations never to find.
Fires in the Sky
sparrows on fire soar through purple
clouds of sorrow down the cruel pathway of yesterday where one
poet drank eighteen whiskies, murdered by a damn dumb quack then
legends born and warnings formed the nightingales on windowsills s-
it crying out roars for lost tomorrows the deathly and deadly warning of
morose nights to come down that a-way we all went dry tobacco wet martinis
in our flasks and pockets galloping in our broken down cars the neon signs we
crossed were out no hope in the air as the flaming sparrows came down to
the edge of the sidewalk hitchhiking rides to other times we offered
they refused
we cried and drank and passed out in the freezing desert day the nights
too hot to handle we sweated buckets and wet martinis can only do
so much we had nothing else we swilled them down we drowned
phoenixes may rise from their ashes we do not we did
not we knowingly entered the madness unleashed beasts buried since
Plato’s and Timocreon’s time farewell world new beginnings final
preparations and the roadtrip’s long and one-way.
