drunk

the writing fool

woke up way too goddamn early
this morning. had way too many
bourbons last night. I make
some coffee but it tastes like
something a north dakota pipeline
is pumping up, dump it down the
drain. heat up a

frying pan, throw three tortillas
down, flip em when they bubble
up. crack a few eggs and plop them
in. forgot oil, so the eggs are
sticking. portion out the
eggs on a each tortilla. grab
some guacamole, spoon some
on each then a dousing of hot
sauce. sit in my tan leather
desk chair and eat like it is
be my last meal. think about

last night. had plans to tour
the bars down the street but as
I made it to the tracks, a union
pacific was crawling by. then
it just stopped. turned back and
went to the bar just across the
alley from my place. I’m already
a few neats in, feeling more kerouac
on buckley drunk then kerouac on
the road drunk. was not in

the best of shape and I’m pretty
sure I made a fool of myself when
I tried to slur flirt with two pretty
tattooed blondes that sat next to me. I
don’t think I can show my face in
there for at least a couple of

weeks. fool. washed my dish and
frying pan then grabbed my black
notebook to see what foolish
things I wrote during my liver’s
final stand- it was sloppy, illegible
and gibberish. what a waste. the

writing fool heads back to bed, the
only place where he can’t screw it
all up.

hard on

got drunk again last
night. but woke up early as
I need to write. head, on
golden pond fog. look

at the bed, the corner of
the fitted sheet has ripped
off, exposing the mattress. bad
dreams perhaps, don’t remember
a single on of ’em, only
remember my bladder screaming
at me like an old woman atop
her clothesline in
manhattan at five in the
morning.

I boiled some water in my
teapot. got a scoop ready
in the french press, rub
my temples- the tusk
squeeze. left the bar alone
last night but I didn’t give
a good god damn. walked in
with one of those moods- you
are all my muse but don’t
talk to me. teapot
whistles and I pour into
press.

and as I wait for it
to steep, still rubbing my
temples, I wish that I took
a bird home with me last
night. that ripped fitted
sheet shoulda been due to
passion, not REM fits.

the few minutes seem like
a lifetime, and I push the
plunger down. pour coffee into
my favorite mug, the one I
bought several years ago at
some van nuys thrift shop. touch
of honey at the bottom, touch
of milk on top and stir. the
sound of spoon on porcelain
puts me in a daze. I should
sleep some more.

lean against the counter, salute
this saturday morning and take
a sip. lean against the counter,
dizzy and with a hard on, wishing
I had taken a bird home last
night. stared at my exposed
mattress thinking about what
to write about today. figure
I’d start with my hard on and
an exposed mattress.

the north has to win again

there’s nothing worse than getting
drunk to punch up a great poem but
getting horny instead. you stare at
the page yet the south begins to
rise again. but the prose general
in you sternly tells it to
quiet down! The north wins this
one! and it does for a stretch but
that window you opened in your hot
apartment leads to hearing women
laugh on a patio at a bar just
downstairs. the other window you

opened in the kitchen picks
up the rhythmic chug of a freight
train bobbing up and down on
rails over and over. and you drift off

to a brunette siren with shimmering
shoulders gracing the outside of
straps on a blue dress. a coy smirk
forming on the left of her lips as she is
about to take a sip of red. her smooth
legs shifting slowly to the right; her
neckline plunged and peering into
your wide eyes.

there’s nothing worse than getting
drunk to write but getting horny
instead. I think I have fought the
good fight on this one- it’s
almost complete but then,

I hear a door open in the hallway and
two women share a laugh that bursts
through my door reminding me that
this work is lost and I

am

finished.