HELP SAVE A LIFE
homeless artist
in need of adoption
great companion
good with
children
all shots up to
date.
Put together
some eggs and stuff for the kid. Used a paper towel to filter the
coffee, worked well, a little anisette to sweeten and we have the
perfect after dishes after feeding Sean his breakfast treat. Want to
go somewhere today, don't care or know where but got some cash, got
my son got the old lady's car and she's sleeping so - got the world
on a string... everything I need well almost, Seany wants me to go
back and get Duchess, our black Doberman. So OK Seany you’re right
we have to take her with us so she won't cry. We drive up to the golf
course where I work; we cut out off the main road on to a pot holed
maintenance road and park along the edge of an abandoned fairway. I
leave the car door open so we can hear the radio and me and the kid
and the dog run around like mad until the rain gets there and we pack
up ourselves into the old Cutlass Supreme head out to A&W burger
joint. “Be sure and get extra pickles on the one for Duchess. She
really likes them you know Dad.” That big scary black devil
Doberman loves my son almost as much as I do. Dear old duchess with
her red bandanna collar. Patience of a saint never growled at the
kid even when he'd pull her eyelids out and twist them in his tiny
little fists. Saint Duchess only whines a bit waiting for me to
rescue her from the tyranny of toddlers. And when he was learning to
walk? Wasn't it Duchess like some black devil mother hen following
just behind as if to make sure no harm would come to her charge and
when as he occasionally did, Sean fell? Wasn't it Duchess on the spot
licking his face so that any thought of tears vanished into tickled
laughter? There was a time when I'd always carry a pen and a wad of
note paper where ever I went. I'd be writing poems in the woods, in
the churches, the mens rooms, the bar, leaning up in a doorway out of
the rain down-town the heavy smoke of damp cigarettes lace the perfume
of cheap port wine like a brown paper bag coming up with ink stains
from my coat pocket cold bricks against my neck leaning back out of
the rain breathing deep the cold air that waits for snow...
It's been a long
time since I've done that needless to say it's been a long time since
I came up with a line of poetry. Today I was going through some
things and found one of those wads of paper with some writing on it
and also tucked in was an old Bic pen - still works! So how does one
resist? What the fuck, why not write?
I've not been
with my wife or son, been staying at my parents. I'm sitting here
trying to sort out my feelings listening to my brother's stereo -
Dylan, Don't Think Twice It's Alright, Neil
Young, Oh Lonesome Me.... There is a large lump where my heart used
to be and it's so cold it feels like pain.
Still what I am
needing most is a place to live so Money! Money, money everywhere
but not a cent for me. I think if I had enough money I could have
kept my wife, she loves new cars and big houses and clothes and
furniture and somewhere down the line maybe there used to be I'm
going to take a walk up by the reservoir. The place where I "grew
up", the place of first acid trips and parties, the place of
good comrades and the first time I made love. There is a place I go
there a place where my first lover and I sat by the little pond
hidden by the red pines, a place of still remembering, a happy good
remembering, a grateful remembering of you Mary.
Along,
along... and here I am 24 years old smoking to many cigarettes,
working my ass off for three dollars and fifty cents an hour, living
at my parents, sleeping on the sofa in a house full of cat hair, and
my wife has told me to leave her alone - to get the fuck out, she
wants to go out with other guys to see if she can't be happier and if
not well then maybe she'll take me back. My sons got no family. I got
no friend to talk to, no woman to love - and they still ain't gonna
keep me down 'cause somewhere there is a little bit of luck left and
no matter what happens I'm gonna be around. Painful, yes but not
fatal! I'll still be here for a while longer, here in this life, here
on this planet and I suppose it doesn't really mean a thing. Pain is
just another way of seeing how alive you are. So I'm gonna shake
these lonesome blues get the fuck out and find someone new....
Sitting here
reading through what I've written, it's been months since the last
word.... and where does one start? How to get back into the groove?
Lesson number one: You can never go back! Which is no solution to my
problem - to write. I'm not living any where still the couch at Mom
and Dad's. Haven't painted in about six months and its been almost as
long since any poetry. It's crazy all the wasted time. Doing the bar
scene, a few mid night escapades, girls who make me happy for a
while, sell a little coke, make love to Suli once in a while
afterwards feeling so achey because you can never really go back. I
have dreams of telephone calls from women in big rooms full with
blank canvasses and death and terrors. Dreams - these images are
common in my dreams.
Looking for
love among the ruins. Among the "friends" who fuck my wife,
among the spilt stale beer blue fog across the bar room television
light. Looking for love among the ruins the shell shocked soldier
bleeds red from his eyes, from his heart and from underneath his
finger nails. Big titted broads fresh vomit on their breath hungry
for kisses, little girl giggles, teasers pleasers, playing card
people flipping one game after the other, power plays just getting
you to say OK. is enough, she never shows and when you call no one
knows just who you are but she might be back tomorrow, and when you
call no one knows just who you are but could you not call here
anymore. I am some misguided saint, my lamp dull above the darkness -
show me an honest person and I’ll call you a liar. A veteran on the
battlefield ending up with scars that should but cannot be hidden,
wounds that should but cannot be fatal.
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