Posts Tagged ‘Alcohol’

Wasn’t I just here
Dragging the hose to the top of this hill
When Mom wasn’t looking, on the phone
Eroding the soil to catch it
At the bottom with a friend, shovels, and a dam
Before it floods my parent’s bedroom?
Wasn’t I just here, throwing a party
Snapped sprinkler heads and underage drinking?
Wasn’t I just here planting this sapling
That towers above me – does she remember
Me saving her from my chores of cleanup?
Wasn’t I just here, parking the Monte Carlo
One tire up on the curb
And staggering into the house on drugs?
Wasn’t I just on my way to the Nickels
To fuck around with high school experiments:
How much Jim Beam can I drink
Before I drown or forget whose breasts I am holding?
Wasn’t I just around the corner
Cursing up a storm just to roll those words?
Wasn’t I drinking Cisco just the other night
And shooting pool with the MH Posse?
I thought I was just down at Nobes
Throwing stolen pallets off the cliff
And leaping through the fire with my Mickeys.
Could have sworn I was just at Nati’s
While my parents told our favorite waitress
That they were so proud of Kyle and I.
Wasn’t I the one who broke Mom’s last wind chime,
And threw my Dad against the breezeway wall
When he tried to stop me from running away again?
Didn’t I just lie to Dad about
Doing all my chores but I didn’t coil the hose?
Wasn’t that just me and Gary
Doing stupid hazardous tricks of that stolen launch ramp?
Wasn’t that me the other day
Looking down from the top of the pine tree
At my hysterical mother telling me to come down
And powerless to do anything about it?
Didn’t I just steal my first Penthouse
From the neighbor’s garage
And see Venus, Venus, Venus
In three color pictorals?
Don’t I get my $5 allowance now, Dad?
I want to go buy Lemonheads at Delta Drug.
Didn’t I just have those army men
And Matchbox Cars
That Dad keeps digging out of the backyard?
I swear that I just read the pain
In Jared’s poetry and thought that I could do that.
Wasn’t I just hammering my drum set
In the garage to “We Built This City”?
Where are Samwise and Frodo;
They were around
Just a second ago.
And I thought I saw Grandma and Grandpa
Last weekend for miniature golf;
How come Grandpa always won?
Wasn’t I just here with Karen, with Laura,
With Dawn, with someone else?
Wasn’t I just here?

Murder by Dinner

Posted: August 21, 1994 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

I’m going to dinner
and I’m nervous.
A family friend;
Don’t continue your trend, Mike.
If the one drink, two drink
Three drink, no think
Pink elephant stupidity
of the Alcohol speaking;
Speak when spoken to
And you’ll get through
Your nerves and your dinner.
Be polite and considerate;
Practice for the day you’ll see them again.

I’m scared because I never want
To see them again;
That’s why I’m scared of the wedding.
How many cousins and aunts,
Uncles, relatives and friends
Of the family
Know me as the drunken braggart,
The impolite scene-maker,
The window-puncher,
Under pressure and
Making the most of murdering myself?

Laid Back

Posted: February 3, 1994 in Poetry
Tags: ,

Sometimes I get loose on the mike
I got juice and I might
take a hike to the store
for some more Mickey’s Hornets.
Sure, let’s get real funny, honey;
meet me at Johnny’s.
You can play the wall, stand tall,
sink the 8 ball.
Ducats is what I’m wantin’
someone’s up to somethin’
I can hear them comin’.
Tough like a Toughskin
ramblin’ like James Joyce
listen to the B-Boys
pumpin’ from my Rolls Royce.
I don’t give a fuck
if it’s funky or not;
I drop my lyrics and it makes
the spot hip-hop nonstop.
No blades ‘cause I kill with a ballpoint pen
my vocal slice ‘n dice cuts like a shuriken.
I’m laid back on the track
it’s so thick I put my feet up;
I can kick your ass
with a styrofoam cup.

Between the Devil and the deep blue sea
there is me and a bottle of Smirnoff™ Vodka
destined to drown me in Davy Jones’ Locker.
The pursuit of happiness, wine, women, and song
goes on like the road that never ends, so long
that it sends itself laughing away ‘till you’re lost
lonely and livid at the stupid kid
that let himself grow up into this;
I learned to eat, sleep, work hard, and miss
being young, strong, and full of inspiration,
dreams, songs, and wise magickal imaginations.
My thoughts were real, my dreams weren’t fantastic.
They were attainable goals – feats of magick.
People had done it and I was going to do it,
going under, ‘round, over, or right through it.
Twenty-two and going under in a different way;
the ocean is grey and the Devil is calling –
bastard chased me through nightmares
every night of my life and the knives
that I cut with shine bright like a promise
that I have chosen unwisely; I’m falling.
Surprising? Dreams don’t come true
and you can trace the cause back to
when you stopped believing in Santa Claus.

Untitled Poem #171

Posted: October 18, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , ,

wow Michael what a way to get back into
writing in your poetry journal:
a little scotch,
a little blood,
a little scotch in your blood,
[a little blood in your scotch]
and you’re back to begging
that it’s all over.

Notes from Cutting My Wrist

Posted: October 16, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , ,

I : Bloodstain
someday this piece of paper
will contain a dried, flaking bloodstain
that I can laugh at and feel good about because
“I don’t DO that anymore”.
but right now it’s fresh from my wrist
and I do that right now and
life
really
hurts.

II : Recipe
1) one bottle of scotch whiskey
2) one glass
3) several ice cubes
4) one exacto knife kit (or a bunch of razorblades, whatever you prefer)
5) one poetry notebook (or paper of some sort)
6) one pen or pencil
7) one broken promise about no more suicide attempts because you are “past” that.

yes, like I’m past hurting.

A saddened man
Will boost his spirits
By having a can
Of Coors or Schlitz
He tries to thik
Of something else
Not armpit stink
Or prison cells
Not the fourth dimension
Nor Madonna’s navel
Not stress or tension
Or record labels
Not impending doom
Or space invaders
Not business boom
Nor prancing satyrs
Not greasy bacon
Or Motley Crue
Not movin’ and shakin’
Or a shade of blue
Not stuffed animals
Not the Cosby Show
Not new Weird Al
Not old Van Gogh
Not the E.R.A.
Not the Price is Right
Not yesterday
And not last night
So the saddened guy
Sets his glass down
Clears his mind
And has another round.