infinite dip

I am indeed terrified

of my own clear head,

horrified of the things

it'll see and hear,

of the things those things'll

make me feel.

I have not been comfortably numb

for going on eight years

and I miss it terribly.

The only barrier between me

and an infinite dip back into the pool

of oblivion

is a certainty -

plunging ever deeper  -

that I'd soon drown.

But as the embodiment

of an exposed nerve

rubbing raw against humanity,

I know such a barrier

is doomed to fall.

bicentennial christmas

A stone drunk Santa

slow jams through our home,

his long white beard

reduced to patchy stubble,

rosy cheeks

gone yellow & hollow,

chubby physique

now stick figure thin.

Dad's lifelong passion for oblivion

once curtailed at Christmas

in deference to us kids

could no longer be,

such balance now beyond his grasp,

chased away by the ghosts of cirrhosis

gnawing at his liver.

This last Deck The Halls,

sipping Cream of Kentucky

libations through a straw,

when even prayers to the porcelain

or the rug or the sink

are unable in the end to stave off the slab

and a date with a toe tag

come the swelter of August.

regret with whip cream

My mind is rarely made up,

always casual with thought

and broken teeth grinding quiet,

forever tiptoeing

past my good intentions

wondering if they'll forgive me.

My pain shoots at me

in response to inquiry,

missing again

the avarice

I want to own

but can't even borrow.

Meanwhile the siren songs of autumn

rise like Lazarus through the fall

in the guise of the suburban leafblower,

more certain than death.

autumn unfunny

There is only Carrot Top

and infinity to solve,

cold in the afternoon

with September waning

and October's claws

gnawing to unsheath.

downbound for the valley

I'm tumbling down the mountain of youth,

faster to the valley of senility.

Their voices down there

- cloaked in madness -

grow louder to my ears.

Still, they don't take themselves

so seriously as the kids on high

and their early bird specials

are quite reasonable.

phil fish was right

sounds of my body

breaking down

echo down the hallway,

stopping at the can.

the noise from the weakness

is deafening,

the light from what's left of me

luminous no more.

i'm but the unfortunate consequence

of losing one's stomach

in all nonsenses of the term.

new keds shoes

glancing at the house

once holding me close,

keeping me sick

with wino bourbon blight.

--

my friends are gathering

in the cross corner lot

for remembrances of broken glass,

ghosts at play with new keds shoes.

--

i'm always almost with them,

dragging a bit behind

carrying shattered consciences

of errant kites fallen into power lines.

--

this gorgeous patch of suburbia

in its formative years

fills the caverns of my memories

with rosebuds and plum trees.

--

safe for a time

from our little house of horrors

where mom always said,

"don't play happy in the house."

--

or maybe she simply set the stage

for me to draw my own conclusions

of our depressive misdemeanors

with a fierce beauty all their own.

puddles and circumstance

Her foot steps drum

through rainbow puddles

staining sidewalks sleepy

in quiet after hours

broken but by laughing coughs

and distant sirens caterwauling

toward those unfortunate denizens

bested by circumstance,

beaten by this night.

goodwill sunflowers (van gogh on the cheap)

the pale green plaster walls crack

to a nicotine ceiling sadly

coughing up our acrid interior

hazy through their shroud of putrid.

--

a thrift store van gogh muses

from his living room perch on high,

they lie catty corner to one another

in fading upholstered coffins

numb to vincent's goodwill sunflowers.

--

sick, smokes, and delirium

and never ending bargain basement booze

flow by the hand-me-down television

tuned to unwatched watergate hearings

whose treachery can't be bothered

in this netherworld of ours.

august '77

Elvis is in rehearsal for his last show,

polishing the toilet seat

for an audience of one;

the king can see that final curtain

rising through the mist

of his deep fried fame,

singing songs to himself

no one will purchase,

gummy through the cobwebs

of pharmaceutical sadness.

--

My father is in rehearsal for his last sale,

dampening the sofa cushions

for an audience of us;

my dad can see that final customer,

yellow through the mist

of cirrhosis fever,

speaking words to himself

no one will fathom

as they drown into a jigger

of bourbon madness.

--

The king and my pops

never made it to September,

dissolving into nothing

in the flush of the Summer of Sam.

Wonder of the Wenceslas Square KFC

She got drunk on a feeling -

I wish it were mine -

then left me

without ever having come.

She's a never ending angst

to those she inhabits

with herself more at ease

than a child's imagination.

She's my lost love, the wonder -

working the counter

on the late shift

at the Wenceslas Square KFC.

The Briny Deep of Bandaid Bitters

I'm seven years washed ashore

from the briny deep

of bandaid bitters,

cowering, covering wounds laid open

with no numbing libations

to salve my psyche.

I've learned to comport myself

with field dressings

of Effexor and fear come crawling,

keeping at bay

all that burns

like salt water on a nerve

exposed to the ocean breeze.

Dyslexic Misanthrope

The softest side of empty

is plenty hard to live with;

the quietest despair,

a dissonant dementia.

I am a dyslexic misanthrope,

driven to self destruction,

content with self distraction,

left with self delusion.

I stand in repose

wrapped 'round life's tangle,

with the knowing smile

of a joke played on myself:

The horrific

and the beautiful

are but two sides

of the same straight razor

and Leonard Cohen called

to let you know

you need a shave.

Dance of Drunkards

The Wicked Witch of the West

was but a patsy

for the evil goody two shoes Gilda

perpetrates in perpetuity

on munchkins blissfully unaware.

"It's not easy being green"

is not Kermit's lament alone

and the companionship of flying monkeys

are a cold comfort indeed.

Thoughts of the shifting moralities

of these Ozraelites

haunt me needlessly,

like all good hauntings should.

Meanwhile, the cold rain

of February

bleeds wet upon the overcoat

as I remember Father

and his perpetual legs-akimbo

dance of drunkards,

steps as ageless as cirrhosis

scarring time

like the wizard that he was.

"Ignore the man behind the curtain throwing up onto his slacks.

The great and powerful Chuck has spoken."