Posts Tagged ‘Wine’

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.

yes I write poetry, I’m a poet
and I can’t crawl in bed with you
when I’m hurting;
my heart was shattered –
a wine stemmed glass on the freeway
a sheet of glass and a baseball
a face of a clock thrown to the pavement
into slivers
silver slivers
shivering silver slivers
and I can only think of
you lying on my bed believing
breathing your belief
that it will be OK
in the morning,
my friends outside
thinking that I’m OK
or will be that way
when I sober up
in the morning;
parents, separate, so far away
missing each other and still
hoping for me
to cure insanity
and be happy
with a world full of me.

Important Enough to Sit Still

Posted: April 27, 1993 in Poetry
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heated with rose wine
from a big cheap bottle,
I immerse myself in beach sand.
full and sun-warm,
like the fat flavored wine,
like Mediterranean sea-air;
I remember through the hiss of the surf
how it was like blood down the back of my throat,
that wine,
and how I must have been meant to drink blood on the beach.

Imitation of Charles Bukowski

Posted: April 27, 1993 in Poetry
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once at a stoplight in San Diego
one middle-aged bum in a dirty red flannel
asked me for some change ‘cause he had a couple children
I said that’s not the reason but I can guess the real one
he said he lost his job just a couple days ago
said he had no money and he didn’t have a place to go.
the light turned green but I asked him what’s the money for
he said port wine; I gave him a dollar sixty-four.

The Fall of Rome

Posted: April 24, 1993 in Poetry
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the decline of Rome was a beautiful thing:
around the Emperor you’d laugh and sing,
pasted on smiles over plenty of warning
while the city skyline is crimson with burning.
spinning like the gold of a fumbled coin,
maybe I’m ready to leave in the morning
but not tonight
while I’m this beautiful man…
I tell you these dreams are hourglass sand
and I won’t even fight
to keep all of this that you think is real;
it’s always been mine and it’s no big deal.
if Rome is burning, then that is fine,
I won’t lift a hand but to drink more wine.

a bottle of wine and a sunset,
a beach a place to sit;
this is what I’d like to do
with you to believe.
I believe you can summon dolphins
and that you’re a spirit, an angel.
I know of our fears of demons
and of blue bathroom windows,
ouiji boards and my piano playing.
I live to see you cry and argue
and almost break: then
there are my arms for comfort,
my tongue for talking and my ears
for listening and understanding.
I’ll catch you from harm
by falling against you at the same time;
we’ll teeter but we won’t topple.
all of the sunsets are painted on a canvas
big enough to share: the sky
– and I’d like to share it with you.

Untitled Poem #137

Posted: November 25, 1992 in Poetry
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I want to write you
with my soul;
like a piece of bread
soaked in wine;
to stroke each word
like painting a lover,
then stand from the canvas
and murder myself
for ink.

I am the most beautiful man
on this road,
my bottle of red wine
wetting my lips
through the lizard-trod dust.
My spit places octopi
in the tiny gravel
splayed like fingers
or clouds.

Sometimes I weave back
and forth between the ruts
in the road,
carrying my bottle of red wine
before me like a crucifix,
amazed at the hundreds of lizards.

La Cascada sings to me
with the beauty of
a lost flute,
with the conversation
of it’s motherly water falling;
with its brood of half-made tadpoles.
I bless her with a mouthful
of my crimson wine,
baptizing each new frog,
each new dragonfly
wriggling in half-formed majesty.

I am the most beautiful man
on this road,
waking to wine and muscle,
surprised from the deadening
of young-adulthood.
I am the most beautiful King of Fate,
the Prince of La Cascada,
the Champion of Frogs and
the fool of red wine.

Untitled Poem #2

Posted: April 17, 1987 in Poetry
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Death is a lonely business
Bearing an hourglass
As the tide shall sweep the shore.
Shall I be no more?
Like a drop of precious wine
Life can pass you by.
Smell the flowers by the wayside
Happiness stays sublime.
Reaper with his just sickle
Doest thou be fickle
Within your reckoning
About your victim?