DRUNK

I don’t sleep until I’ve drunk

all the wine to sea level

until I’ve come down

from the mountain 

alighted on a limb

I don’t sleep easily when

I refuse to give in 

secret lives make me hunger

for rare is the time

a story is realized

without the wine

when it comes, this sleep

this battle I’ve waged

silence reacts like

a dream uncaged

sober, I wake to what

the muse demands

sober, I write while

the cats eye the day

we miss you, they whine

in the creeping night

your drunken unburdening

your nail-biting ride

to a story you’ve

unearthed at the bottom of a glass 

while we sleep in the daylight

and you are free at last

a paw needs licking

a head needs kissing

the rule book’s in place

and as she ages

they give her the floor

write a story, they say

until you can’t anymore

we’ll carry on leaping in

late night intent

while you carry on making

your way to repent

tomorrow is always a fickle thing

bravado or Zen is challenging

the secret of life

are cows not so far 

from the writer

we trust or we don’t anymore

it’s the path we’d rather

a sober collective or

a bloody bother

I don’t sleep until 

I contact the courier

I don’t sleep until 

I drink the blood of the warrior

 

1.31.18 nyc

PHOTO: Tim Tapling Walkin' the humans : Macdona Drive : West Kirby : Wirral : 20:Nov:2024.

 

AMONG US

what was less then

what was lost

what was found in

in our round table

was mostly future

among the cats and the wine

what we failed was the nurture

we traveled away

from the canvas the studio

we huddled too close

to the answer the obvious

I shed you

I did

for my own self worth

Sacrificed you for me

Still undecided

You touched the bottle

a reprimand to my flight

I understood

too late

too angry to fight

Amsterdam pulled the plug

Amsterdam was the flood

that lifted me over redeeming waters

I was young then and mostly drunk

I was young then

and mostly alone

you tracked how I flew

my singular path

Breakfast in Amsterdam

Breakfast was a drag

And I made a picture

of us in the round

Of us as artists underground

the basement the studio

I have never recovered

your sly criticisms

your tiny canvases of mirth

I am still here

That’s my singular birth

nyc

11.23.17

The Studio on East 85th Street. Early 70s. When we artists were a dedicated group of friends. Nothing lasts forever.

 I think of you

In the low moments

The space between torment.

I think of you

Like a list for the market.

I have that. Don’t need that

I must stock that soon.

I think of you

Eyeing that bloodline of

The red, red wine.

The glass like a broken marker

Of unsaid regret.

Coffee beans in Sambuca

Dark and perfect.

 

I think of you

I think of you

Fingers crippled into caves

Of unsure revenge

Covering the keyboard

Folded, dilated, saved.

Crossing the Rubicon.

Wearing the wrong shoes

For a miscalculation.

Does it count

When I am up late

Betraying those decisions

I made to choose.

 

I think of you in revisions.

I think of you

In stories once written.

The page like a nightmare

On its gentler way

Flying down slowly

To save a dark day.

Who makes the incisions

When friendship is torn

You think I’m wrong

I know

I know.

 

Does it matter

This blue unintentional

This sudden redeemable 

This this uneventual

Collision of disregard.

 

I think of you even now

Conniving inspiring rewiring

Despairing on cue.

Foolish me foolish you

I know

I know

It’s battle fatigue.

 

Embraced at the airport

Like long lost friends.

You left me no choice but

To choose in the end

The history of one over

Small angers of another.

I thought you were bigger.

I thought you were tougher.

 

I’ll miss you for now

Never forget your voice.

It’s stuck in our song.

You have no choice.

Make the most of your secrets

skulls piled under lampshades

Rugs pulled from the eaves

of regrettable he-said—she-said

Another conquest will come

In a while.

 

Be safe little monkey

Think longer and harder. 

Beware the pedestal

Reject the martyr.

Beware of the longing.

Remember the embrace.

Love yourself try harder or

You will lose the race.

 

I think of you often.

That will not be erased.

 

For Carmen, in space.

1.26.19

Can’t go to sleep

The bottle’s not empty

Yellow jackets

Sneak in

Through cracks in the window

Like drunks thrown to the curb

Begging forgiveness

In the dead of night

while the living write blurbs

for the apocalypse

10.25.18

Cons.Gardens.

 

EASTER

She traces her skull under the skin

This is the cage or the home

She was born to live in

Her instincts are buffering

In an aged moment

She’s just waves rolling over

A storm ravaged torment

Beach-side she’s planted

Before a horizon

You know who you are

Screams the gull overhead

She does and she doesn’t

While her feathered friend grins

Like a bird in the know

Like a strong undertow

This is gorgeous she says

This captured existence

Collecting clues in a literary manner

Hedging her bets

Getting ready the spanner

She picks up smooth stones

Slides them into a pocket

Saved for the day when

She needs to unlock it

This life this lesson

This something missing

Graves are an insult

For whatever that’s worth

The dead should never pollute the earth

Quick as she can

She skips over the sand

Quick as she can she

Reboots life now stalled

This ongoing lesson

Of who are the ones to

Tear down the walls

It is gorgeous she says

This wounded existence

Gate crashing it seems

Never ends with the wishing

I’m here now she cries

I don’t need permission

I’m here now she whispers

I have got a mission.

4.21.19

nyc

Photo: Tim Tapling

Promenaders : West Kirby : Wirral : 31:May:2024.