Blackouts harbor troves of furious half-imagined images. Secrets forced down never to be spoken, unbelievable games where vile beauty and lunatic smiles flash and flee, room to room and street to street. Delicate yet deviant mouths flashing brilliance like untrained weapons, untaught in taut jeans, no need to convince the green to become black like the night. The willing will always follow the one who smiles and bites.
I can’t find the damn door. I think something fell in my drink. Is this vodka? Why do I not know anyone and why did the music change? This is insane. My pants aren’t skinny enough. My tattoos aren’t ironic enough. My watch isn’t big enough. The women are so young and perfect but I can’t make out what they’re saying so instead I’m just anxious and frightened. It sounds like everyone’s talking about how cool they are. Do I need eyeliner? I feel it really start to hit me as I finally hit the sidewalk. The warm summer air is going to beat me down and take my inhibitions, fears, comforts and money tonight and I’m totally OK with it. I think of my mother, my dog, and my old ’72 LTD that used to take me places bigger and faster than what’s imaginable. I smile and stroll, rain drizzling down my grin. I call an ex-girlfriend and she hangs up on me because all she hears is my excited and slurred gibberish, sentences ending in garbled nonsense. My clarity is pure, it is YOU that are all crazy, staring at me, whispering and pointing. I befriend a homeless kid and his gross fingernails and skin. He has a dog that is fatter than me and I think that in a pinch, this dude could grub that canine as if it were a juicy swine. We sit and watch the traffic that stream like rivers of light. Faces vaguely hanging in the current of car windows as they swim by, I once again realize that we truly rule our destinies. We own this world. This collective, beautiful universe we all have to love, to learn, experience and share. (Though this night of enlightenment involves me hanging my head off a curb and looking like a total wreck.) My blood sugar was unusually low.
The fickle pickle I find myself in
Is a tickle I tipple with a drop or two of gin.
When the wind isn’t listening I ponder lonely, fidgeting, and wonder if the reason I grin’s because of sin…
My first car was a 1969 Ford Galaxie 500 Country Sedan station wagon. I was 20 years old. All 19 feet of it was white and it had this awesome rear glass window that automatically went up and down with the push of a button. 429 cubic inches of big-time burning of barrels of gasoline. Wagons are my favorite kind of car, utilitarian and spacious, fun and inconspicuous to cops with radar guns and regular guns.
When I was growing up I wanted a red Radio Flyer wagon but it was one of those things that I never got, not because I was deprived, I was just given different toys like Big Wheels and eventually a sweet brown, banana seat bicycle (without training wheels, I might add).
A wagon’s my new whip today. My sweet and interesting nature will be instigated by wholly different reasons and likely by quite a different contingent, as well. I’ll have to wait and see.
A beautiful, glorious, shining wagon that will save me money, blood, regret, and a pile of bad decisions. Well, admittedly, lest we forget the great stories, the legendary fun and the beautiful impulse of reckless abandon that’s often associated with me and fah-watah, in light of all that, my new wagon, however, is gonna be rad.
I walk by my old grade school about every other day. I walk through the park where we played football, where my friend was Dan Marino and I was Steve Largent and I caught bombs from him all day long. It was here, where by 6th grade us boys were terrorizing them girls but also learning to slowly caress them then finally bragging about how we made out with them.
The whiskey is Eagle Rare bourbon and it rests in oak barrels for a decade before bottles of it are carefully filled and 10 years never meant that much until this very moment as I’m writing this. My best friend jumped into a night-time skyline 10 years ago today so now I toast his soul, for as I sit alone, I’m never without him.
My schoolyard, my friend, my booze.
It’s true how when they keenly abuse
their chemicals and bodies soon
resign and refuse
to be something other than someone we lose.
In a post script, Niagara Falls is where barrels, nuptials and suicides coincide like a car crash amidst a holiday parade or a cruise liner sinking in a beautiful tropical bay.
The sheer amount of change that can occur at any given time is staggering.
Year of the tiger. Year of selling of the house. Year of the parting of ways and forging alliances. Year of fresh perspectives and year of old habits, year of earning piles of dough and the year of finding new gigs. Valentines day and fat Tuesday, saints and super bowls and me going to the olympics. Soon I’ll be off to watch the gold medal round of women’s snowboard slalom, at the foot of Mt. Cypress I’ll be, drunk on the stars and stripes with a belly of Canadian whiskey.
You! Ess! Ay! You! Ess! Ay!
Once a glass of whiskey is pushed in front of you by a competent and/or charming bartender the evening will take on an adventurous tone of unpredictable action and invention. Full of heated energy, whiskey causes fate and fortune to coincide, bringing with it the drive of a wanton lover and the confidence of an army at your back.
Romance is similar to violence in where both are fueled by emotion and when doused with whiskey they become tangible animals wild without consequence. Unfortunately, such dangerous directions often lead to places wrought with woeful regrets and lonely hours of reflection. Hoo. Ray. Whiskey neat. Whiskey rocks.