I
there’s 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 I’ve known, at
the time, that that random meeting would lead to the most
intense nine months of my life, that it would
define who I’d become? ten years since your
passing, I’m still defined by your presence.
no one’s 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 you’re 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.
it’s almost ten fucking years since I’ve 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. I’ll
come for you, one day. booze can’t kill me. hard drugs
failed to do the job. one day I’ll crap my liver out and
take a seat next to you at that poker table in the
Devil’s living room. we’ll swill Maker’s Mark and smoke
smuggled Cuban cigars and cheat the horned bastard
out of everything he owns.
we’ll take over hell, like we promised we would during
a tequila weekend. for now, I’m trying to erase you from
my writing, I can’t. you belong in every fucking
line. it’s how it’s supposed to be.
you’re my Jane; my Sera; you’re my Emily and one day
someone’s gonna play you in a movie shown in theaters
too long after I’m 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, there’s 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 won’t 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 we’d sit in an embrace on an algid, sandy beach,
high on crack cocaine and rotgut,
and we watched the dawn
of a new day. we’d always think that
one glorious someday we’d
make it.
we never did. you were gone too early,
I never had it in me to make it. it’s
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
it’s so fucking tempting, you know?
2am in the morning, I’ve 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, it’ll all be over. I’ll be
reunited with my Emily. I know she’s reserved
a seat for me at the Devil’s private poker table.
my drinking buddy doesn’t want me there; he’s the anchor
that prevents me from leaping off the balcony, he’s the reason
I could never jump in front of a speeding 18-wheeler.
it’s 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.
