Years from Oklahoma’s past,
Air brisk in the Mexico scene,
Her footsteps on streets unseen.
Dance floor lights began to flash,
A wild Thursday a Tijuana bash,
Merchant dreams, a Legion's plea,
At the El Grande Rancho,
I faced my grief.
Tijuana night where memories clash,
A brief escape turned to ash.
A thrill that wasn’t worth the price?
Forever I ponder lost in this vice.
Leaning on the wall, a drink held tight,
Watching me stumble as she liked.
I ask her name, the die was cast,
Staggered out
In an alcohol haze,
My eyes locked on her gaze.
It was her the one I missed,
A ghost from the past
In a whiskey fueled mist.
Sitting with a smile,
Friend by her side,
Sharing laughter,
I start to slide.
Can’t find the words,
Thoughts run slow,
Is it her, the girl
I used to know?
“Is it you?” my heart longs to say,
She acts like I’m just in the way.
Fate’s cruel twist
Or time’s harsh play?
A witness tonight to my dismay?
Here I stand a soul adrift,
In shadows deep caught in the rift.
Tijuana nights where memories clash,
A brief escape turned to ash.
SOBER-:-
teetotal
sustainability
abstinence
nonfermented
sobriety
rewarded merits
a CLEAN BILL OF HEALTH
unmalted
dealcoholized
balancing
restart
recovering
SEVERE DIPSOMANIA
anonymously
attends
powwows
shared
stories
Swerving lanes with hot beer breath,
Your foot pressed down, a dance with death.
I watch you spiral, edge in sight,
But say no word, no will to fight.
You’ll lie
I know you will,
You always do.
You’ll lie
To me,
To you.
It’s “just one,”
but one turns two,
Then two turns four
You chase it through
Each curve, each crash
While I just watch
You lose control.
Swerving still,
I stay behind,
Hands clenched tight
But never mind.
Because suddenly
I’m small again,
A child curled tight
Against the pane,
A windowsill my waiting throne,
Hoping he’ll come stumbling home.
Helpless.
Heart worn thin with rust.
Praying love could be enough
To anchor someone
Sober.
To stay.
For once.
Retired, he is a book
fallen from the shelf
after returning
to his home town.
one drink
His ears ring as he
sits alone in clutter
of a broken house
inherited from his mother.
then another
The town once welcoming
has closed its arms
and scenes play in his mind
of when he was banned from bars.
his right, he says
He wants to live in style
wants to sing and dance
to live a prince’s life
with income of a pauper.
to be his own man
Blades of turbines
dance in the wind
and glitter in the sun
a quixotic dream.
nowhere to go
Much akin
To broken bones
tangible
As sticks and stones
It navigates
Beneath my skin
And permeates
The shell I’m in
It leaves no trace
To show another
Manipulation
It’s undercover
A silent suffer
Is my sentence
In alcohol
I’ve found dependence
A lovely burn
I’ve come to crave
I spend my days
Digging my grave
Though defeated
My soul is bruised
I never asked
To depend on booze
Short term relief
To hush the devil
I’ll take respite
At any level
The itching calms
I can relax
Though not for long
It fills my cracks
Two decades later
I’ve released all hope
To find a healthy
Way to cope
My choice of drink
Is not to blame
Silent depression
Designed this game
The sun goes down, the storm begins to rise,A tidal wave behind my weary eyes.
The fear of being left, the splitting dark,
Each emotion leaving such a burning mark.
I grab the glass to numb the jagged edge,
To stop myself from walking off the ledge.
With every sip, the roaring silence breaks,
A temporary shield for my mistakes.
I drown the "too much," hide the frantic need,And plant the, "I am fine," synthetic seed.But when the fog lifts, the trauma remains,The same broken heart, the same heavy chains.The bottle promises a quiet night,But leaves me sinking, hidden from the light.Yet,
He sat outside a window pane,
On the street called Easterlane.
Invisible to some but not to all;
who cared or none the same.
Passersby with shadowed eyes
Would pass by him in vain
And go by him with cautious vibes,
Some judging while some refrain.
A lonely man with dirty hands
and clothes some say as claim;
Would Drink his wine in perfect time,
Before a judgement came.
Some prayed for him.
Some pity him.
Some cursed him just the same.
But he would smile and ignored the trials
and drink his drink again.
From spring to winter,
(All seasons all)
Around the evening two,
Would sit this man with a happy grin, Ignoring the verdict too.
On the news a story arose a scene
That drew the public view;
“Tech. inventor, billionaire and alcoholic too; Dies on Easterlane, around the evening two”
Outside my window (Easterlane)
The man was gone from view.
Tech. Inventor?
Billionaire?
Dam, who would have knew?
I seek deep truth at half past-twelve,
But find it hiding in the skokiaan again. (1)
IDA sighs again,'' know thy ale''. (3)
Phuza Face orders a second pail (2)
By dawn I've solved life's mystery grim
Its mostly froth with little brim.
So drink Majwalis,and think no more. (4)
The mind's a map,the heart
Explanation of a Pub Crawler's Philosophical terms and names
Skokiaan-an illicit home-brewed alcoholic drink made from yeast,sugar and water.Usually its consumption leads to loss of wallet,teeth,wife and kids.Devotees are especially not fond of water and general cleanliness.A nice smell
IDA- means I Drink All.This is said by someone who never buys you drink/alcohol.
Phuza Face- is a colloquial term for the physical effects of heavy or long term drinking resulting in which leads to swelling,puffiness,redness of the face,dark circles under the eyes.
Majwalis-He who is devotee of alcohol and alcoholism who drink himself to death and beyond.Usually a cheque collector. Has a phobia of not reporting for duty on Monday and Friday.
Westbury where skyscrapers scratch clouds,
And backstreet murmur under glowing hum,
The metro slumbers,but terror thunderous crowds.
Laaities hone okapis where mumbled thugs come,
Each gangway a rabbit warren of cries,
And moms grab the dark,awaiting some.
In kangaroo courts blood thirsty 28s and 27s rise,
A revolver roars,the night asks but none says a prayer
While guiltlessness is sold in whispered lies.
Yet in this war,the lane hides myths rare,
Of youngsters who dodge the deep state,running fast,
Their footprints rebound,shivering through the air.
Westbury your skyscrapers check out the die cast,
Each brick a testifier,every lantern a guide,
The twilight is long,but hope remains at last.
The matriarchs of sections keep life supplied,
Their pleading a vein hope under mortar veins,
Where cowards hide,the soul of Westbury won't die
“Lake Shore Drive”
by Positive Mark
I sat the sun on a roof while I re-tied my shoe, and told it to rest up right there.
I quickened my pace, with a mask on my face, just in case all the others might care.
The piers on the inlet hold envious midgets, fake preachers, and lovers of dope.
Societal beatings, anonymous meetings, and new comrades help restore hope.
I shoe shine and grin at the trouble I’m in, as I live my unmanageable life.
The gardens are fed with the faces of dead men who died by the gun or a knife.
The stingray approach, and they glide by in pairs, while the deep thinkers welcome new moons.
The young people sing of the madness life brings, while the old fiddles bellow new tunes.
A preacher just lost his handsome grandson to a substance that long held him for ransom.
I wonder if we’ll ever win.
I picked up the sun from the top of the roof, and started my running again.
There’s something at the bottom of This bottle.
I know it.
Not quite sure what it is yet,
But there’s something down there;
There has to be.
Is it a solution?
God no.
Is it a sense of satisfaction?
Most definitely not.
But the process of finding
Whatever it is
Sometimes gives me
A temporary sense of peace.
Sometimes.
Most times though…
Let’s not focus on that.
Focus on the warm and fuzzy feeling
I get from my search.
If it feels this good now,
It has to feel that much better
When I find whatever’s down there.
I don’t know what’s down there,
But I’ll drown trying to find it.
‘I’m a failed Muslim.
I drink raki now,’ he says.
A bottle twinkles
on the upturned orange box.
On the unmade bed,
a punch-drunk pillow
lurches in a sea of ruptured quilts.
‘I never pray,’ he adds,
as hawk-eyed Ataturk
retreats to an ascetic frame
and glowers at the room.
And we who are too precious
to confess our faults
feel awkward in the silence.
Turkey, 1990
First published in Blue Minaret
I have never known
him to be a drunk until~
I saw him sober
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
z
z
z
z
^
m ( ) m
| |___/ \___| |
OO____Y____OO
In this river we drown in light
A doorway blocked from me
Yet open to dry eyes
I can only hear your hands
Clutching that splintered wood as water
Rushes to ears like war
I cry at the notion
Of you stepping through that white door
Frame as you sip whiskey
In the next room over from me
Tv mumbling comforts
Dearest kitty, you drank my wine last night.
No wonder, you avoid the bright sunlight !
I shall make a small ice bag, for your head,
Your petite, waif-like body, feeling half-dead.
To Felines Anonymous you will now go.
For you see, my Kitty,…….I do love you so!
7/28/2023
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