drunken poetry

Sometimes I think I belong back in the hospital

Sometimes I think I belong back in intensive therapy

Sometimes I think I belong back in the nutritionists office being forced to eat

Sometimes I think I belong in a grave

But lately I’ve been thinking I belong in your arms
Because nothing’s helped me recover like you have

Take a picture of your mother
and turn her smile toward the earth;
watch the roots begin to suffocate —
earth turning blue eyes to brown.
Her smile remains the same
yet your teeth begin to decay
with thoughts only voiced after three drinks
and twenty cigarettes.

You’ll wake up one day and see a man on bent knee,
pledging love to a daughter you see yourself in,
and still you’ll cringe at his accent.
His mother is so proud of his achievements; 
from hot and dirty streets to clean roads and blue skies.
He spent his life searching and working

but you won’t shake his hand.

Let’s pray your daughter didn’t believe your ramblings;
lies dipped in liquor and rebuilt around nightmares.
His love is the same,
if you could see through different eyes
and not your own. 


Have another drink, pretty girl,
See if this one lets you escape your world.
Sure, it’s burning your pretty throat
But what’s that matter if it helps you cope?
They taught you sobriety in that pretty school,
Yet forget to teach you that this world is cruel.
Once you empty that bottle you’ll be all right,
The world will look pretty, the colours seem bright.
You can’t drown your demons but you can sure as hell try,
You won’t be so pretty after you die.

an ode to hot dogs

My last Fourth of July related post (for now) is the only poetry of mine I will ever put up here.

I wrote it in 2002.

I was drunk.

ode to a hotdog

i think that i shall never eat
a substance more devoid of meat
than the hot dog i ate last night
but damn, i did eat every bite.
and when i was done i ate another
so did my sister and my mother
i would have gone for three or four
if there had been any more.

hot dogs are the food of gods
despite the arteries they clog
in the oven, on the grill
floating in a watery swill
mustard (yellow), sauerkraut
that’s what summer’s all about
pile them high upon the plates
don’t talk to me about nitrates

no turkey, tofu, chicken filler
real meat hot dogs are what’s killer
so please don’t call me a big ol’ meanie
when i won’t share my all-beef weenie.