Spanish Tony Revision

Dedicated to Lance "Monty" Wright

Marty loves rock and roll. His mother Beverly is a blue-collar girl from a small
town with a fetish for guitar players. She meets Marty's father one night at a concert and they have sex in an alley behind the bar. She writes down her phone number in lipstick on a bar napkin. He calls her a few nights later.

Marty is ten years old when his rock and roll parents divorce. He cheats on her, she cheats on him, he uses drugs, and she drinks every day. Little Marty is a pawn. She makes breathy late night phone calls and threatens to cut his throat if he brings any women around her son. He destroys furniture and screams that he will take Marty and disappear. His father gives up custody for smaller support payment and moves out of town. He does not tell his son and never sees him again. Beverly marries another guitar player within a year. Dwayne. He hates Marty from the start.

Marty listens to music every day. It makes his chest swell and his leg bounce. The tempos and melodies sink into him like hooks and carry him away to another place. Sometimes, when he sits in front of his cassette player, he forgets about his mother and the stepfather who hates him. Bone-white beams of light stream from the speakers and envelop his body with their electric pulse. His favorite song is "Rosanna" from the band Toto. He hears it for the first time and immediately wants to be a drummer. Beverly does not want to hear it. She expects that her son will be a strapping, blonde haired guitar player. No other instrument will do.

“Mom, what if I wanted to play drums?”

Beverly frowns. “That’s stupid, drummers aren't anything.” She pauses. “Well, what I mean is that they usually aren't famous ‘cause they’re at the back of the stage and they’re usually pretty stupid too. You don’t wanna be stupid, do you, Marty?”

Marty’s eyes widen. “No, mom.”

“Then quit saying stupid things.”

She wants a budding stud, but what she ends up with is a soft and myopic little boy. At least he has blonde hair. She makes him wear it long and strong-arms him over his weight.

“Marty, don’t you wanna be like other kids? You should do more.”

“Mom…” His voice is bursting with bruises.

“Mom what? Marty, you’re too fat. You need some exercise or somethin’. Don’t you wanna ever have a girlfriend?”

“Mom, I’ve had girlfriends!”

“Who? I think you’re lyin’. Girls don’t like fat boys, Marty. Don’t come cryin’ to me later.”

She hates his music and it gives her another reason to scold him. She knows better. He does not know what real music is.

“Marty, you’re listenin’ to Toto? I taught you better than that.”

“God, mom, I like this song!” he whines.

Beverly snorts loudly. “It’s a crappy pop song. You wanna listen to some shit like that instead of good rock like The Stones?”

“I think it’s kinda cool. I wish you liked it.”

“Not in your wildest dreams, buddy-o.” Her expression freezes. “Fine, listen to your pop bullshit. I’m disappointed, my own son, gettin’ into shit like this.”

She leaves the room and slams the door behind here. Marty sighs and pushes the rewind button on the cassette player. He lowers the volume to avoid riling his mother and listens to the song again. The rowdy strains of The Rolling Stones song "Start Me Up" swells from the next room. Marty hears his mother singing along with a thin, reedy voice.

He will quit listening to Toto and start listening to The Rolling Stones. He will love his mom’s music and it will make her love him. She will see that he could be cool and that she can be proud to call him her son. He thinks it will work. A warm cloud of gold climbs from his stomach and fills his shoulders with light.

He walks into the next room and finds her cleaning while the music plays. She is oblivious to her son's presence and waits until the song ends before noticing him. When she does, she stops and frowns.

“Done listenin’ to your music? Then go out and play or somethin’, you can’t hang out in here right now, I’m cleanin’.”

“No, mom, I was wonderin' if I could borrow a couple of your Rolling Stones tapes.”

Her back arches with surprise. “You wanna borrow some Stones?”

“Yeah. I think they're pretty cool.”

“Pretty cool? They’re the greatest rock and roll band in the world, honey.”

“They are? Cool.”

“Lemme get you a couple of tapes.”

She leaves the room. She called me honey! She never does that! She returns with two cassette tapes and a paperback book in her hands. She keeps her grip on them when Marty reaches out to take them.

“Don’t lose this stuff. Lose it and your ass is mine.”

“I won’t lose any of it, mom.”

Her eyes focus on him and her eyebrow arches. "Let me tell you about this book. It's called Up and Down with The Rolling Stones. A guy named Spanish Tony wrote it about the guitarist Keith Richards. It tells a lot about the band. Read it and tell me what you think."

"Okay, mom."

He takes the book and cassettes from her, walks into his bedroom, and puts the tape in. The blue razor slashes of the song "Brown Sugar" rip open a jagged scar on his brain. It is too raw and the steamy volume of the music fazes him. He will pretend to like it though. He will act as if it is the greatest music he has ever heard. He will read this book and act as if he loves every word. He will do it all and she will love him in the end.

He reads the book on the school bus over the next few days. It is largely about drugs and sex. It depicts a world utterly alien to Marty's experience and is slightly repellant. He finishes the book just before he gets home in the afternoon. In a hurry to get off the bus, he stuffs the book into his back pocket and rushes off the bus. No one is home. Marty watches television for a hour before his mom comes home.

“Hi, mom. I finished that book on the way home from school today!”

She sits down and runs her fingers through her hair. She looks down at the floor and a heavy sigh causes her body to convulse. She lights a cigarette and puffs on it with frequent jerks of her hand.

“Really? That’s quick. What’d ya think of it?”

“I loved it! It was fun to read. Especially those stories about Keith and all his guns!”

She smiles. “Yeah, lots of rock stars carry guns. They probably should considerin’ what happened to John Lennon.”

“What happened to John Lennon?”

“He was shot by a crazy fan. You really liked the book?”

“Yeah, mom, it was cool!”

She smiles again. “That’s great! Come here and give me a hug!”

He is propelling headlong into a dream and rushes towards his mother. He gives her a long, tight hug and drives his head into her chest. When he looks up and sees her smiling at him, it knocks the air out of him.

“Okay, honey, where's the book?"

He reaches towards his back pocket and finds nothing. A heavy fist pounds inside his chest. I lost it! He cannot look at his mother and stares at the floor. The carpet collapses and an inky cavity yawns at his feet.

"I... don't know, mom. I don't know. I had it in my back pocket..."

“Huh?”

“I think I lost it, mom.”

“How? Where? Jesus fucking Christ…”

“I finished readin’ it on the bus this afternoon and when I got off, I stuck it in my backpack and ran off the bus in a hurry so I could come in and tell you…”

“That’s it, right there! You didn’t make sure you had the book really inside the backpack and it felt out alongside the road!”

Marty was on the verge of tears. “I think so… mom.”

“DON’T YOU MOM ME, MOTHERFUCKER! DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD THAT BOOK WAS TO FIND?” She takes a deep breath and her eyes narrow. “No, ‘course you don’t. You wouldn’t know. Everything’s about you and nothin’ else.”

“It’s not true! It was an accident and I’m sorry!”

“Everythin’ is an accident with you. Just accident all around. When you gonna take some responsibility for yourself? You ain’t gonna be a kid forever.” She glared at him intensely. “I thought you were my friend. Guess I was wrong. You’re just my kid.”

A salty stream of tears makes his eyes sticky and he rocks back and forth on his toes. “Mom, that… that’s not true. I’m your friend. I love you.”

Beverly is unmoved by his tears. She snorts and waves her hand backward. “Save it. I don’t wanna hear it. You know, you’re like Spanish Tony. Keith trusted him with his secrets and he wrote a book. I trusted you with my copy of the book and you disappointed me. Get outta here. I wanna be alone. Go to your room."

Marty back-peddles into his bedroom. The click when Beverly slams the door shut sounds like a cracking whip. He turns around slowly and lunges towards the cassette tape player. The sound of "Rosanna" playing once again helps him stop shaking and slows his steady tears. He is an orphan and the facts of his birth are incidental. There are no toys here or posters on the wall. There are no pictures or bright colors. There is only a stereo playing a pop song, a small bed, and a bicycle with a flat tire and missing chain. There is only a little boy alone in his room staring out the window at his back yard. He presses his fingers against the glass and cries.

The Hounds - September 2010 Revision

The hounds snap at his heels. Their jagged, fungus-green teeth jut far outside their mouths and throbbing internal organs cling to their distended bodies. They claw at his body and pursue him in long gallops under a stormy, purple sky. One hound wounds a leg and a bubbling stew of vodka and blood erupts from the gash. The pain cuts and burns like flaming glass, but he cannot stumble. They never tire, but if he falters or slows, they will eat his flesh. He cannot keep going much longer.

He wakes up. His wide eyes stare upwards as he gasps for air. An opaque twilight fills the tent and a foul odor fills the air. He convulses and feels a cold layer of sweat covering his body. His rapid heartbeat rattles his chest and his head feels like a rough, heavy hand is pressing down on his skull. He senses someone near and rolls his head to look around. His friend Walter huddles in a corner of the tent.

"Fuckin' Christ, you scared the shit out of me, Johnny! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Walter is in his late forties. Ancient acne scars dot his face and his long arms are loose, fleshy spools of rope. The gray hair matted to his head looks like a sticky smear of paint.

Johnny runs his hand over his face and sighs. "Sorry, man. Nightmare."

"I'll fuckin' say. You thrashed around like crazy." He pauses. "I'm glad it happened though. I had a nightmare too and you woke me up."

"Any of that bottle left? I need a drink. I'm shakin' already."

Walter reaches into a nearby backpack and pulls out a half gallon of vodka. This is the solvent of choice, the poison that scours away the battery of their birth. Johnny unscrews the lid with shaking hands and raises the bottle to his lips. He swallows three mouthfuls before he feels his body relax.

"You got any tobacco left?" Johnny asks.

"Yeah. Want me to roll it?"

"If you would. I'd just fuck up the paper."

They smoke silently. They tumble in a toxic abyss, head over feet, and their dizzy descent brings them to the brink of death. Johnny is pale and puffy. Deep grooves of shadow surround eyes like ditches and his bald head glistens with sweat. Walter's stomach is bloated and distended. Alcohol squeezes its way out of every pore of his body and smells like rotten cabbage.

"What kinda nightmare did you have?" Walter asks.

"It was fuckin' bad. These hounds were chasing me and biting me. They were turned all inside out and I saw their insides. They were like demons."

"Damn. I hadda nightmare too."

"What was it?"

"I was in a house of bones. Faces and claws were comin' out of the walls and faces talked to me."

"What did they say?"

"They said I was scum and deserved to die. They said they'd get me soon."

Walter says nothing. They live in the woods near a railroad switchyard and the whine of a train whistle punctuates their silence. The living room lights of distant houses tatter the dark around them.

"I heard voices too." Johnny says.

"You too?"

"Yeah. The hounds talked to me."

"What did they say?"

"They said we were gonna die."

The chill covers Walter's body. It is unsettling to have been a part of Johnny's nightmare. He takes another long drink and passes the bottle to Johnny.

"That all we got left?" Johnny asks.

Walter frowns. "Yeah, but we got some money left from yesterday."

"Enough for another one?"

"Yeah, I think so. What time ya got?"

"I don't know, man. Let me find my watch."

Walter looks through his backpack and sighs deeply. "I can't find my watch."

"Well, it ain't been that long since the sun went down. I think it's eight or somethin'. Plenty of time still. I don't think we've been passed out long."

"I know we need more. That's all I know."

"Yeah. I don't feel right." Johnny says.

"Let me roll a couple more cigarettes for the walk."

Their black bodies strain through the humid nighttime air. Their tent is in a tiny clearing and a small footpath leads to the railroad tracks. The only sound they hear is the soft crackle of dry foliage under their feet.

Johnny's breathing is frantic. "We missed the trail! I can't see anything!"

"It's okay, we'll make it. I ain't very steady though."

"Me too. Just take it slow, okay?"

They walk into trees, stumble over fallen limbs, and step into hidden holes. The vines and overgrowth alike smack their faces. Johnny thinks about his dream and a cold fist clutches his body.

"I'm scared, man. Ain't no light at all." he says.

"I know. There's no light anywhere."

Johnny stops and his head twists from side to side. "Walter, did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"That sound! Shhh! I think something's following us."

"I don't hear anything."

Johnny sighs and shakes his head slowly. "Let's sit down for a minute. I can't think straight."

"No problem."

They sit down and take another drink. A hot blast of nausea wracks his body. He hands the bottle back to Walter and lays back on the ground.

"I feel sick and see things movin' all around me. I feel like I can't breathe sometimes."

"Man, we've been drinkin' everyday for a week. I don't even know what day of the week it is."

"I've been seein' things every day lately. Insects as big as fists, weird colors."

"We're gonna be okay, man. You just need another drink and it'll make you feel better."

"The whole fuckin' world's gone rotten." Johnny says.

They quietly pass the alcohol back and forth. A black, scalding cloud blooms from the bottle but the men do not see it. Its oily gurgle clots their minds, peels away muscle and fries their nervous system. Nothing escapes its gelatinous reach.

"Maybe we should go back to the tent and lay down. We can worry 'bout getting a bottle later. I don't think it's more than nine o'clock, so we got six more hours before the store closes." Walter says.

"I need to lay down. I can't think straight and I'm scared."

"We ain't got nothin' to be scared of, Johnny. It's all in your head."

"Let's go back to the tent, man, okay?"

They are carried back to their tent on a covert breeze that causes the tree limbs to rustle and clash. Milky pinholes of light from lightning bugs wheel all around them. Johnny is having trouble catching his breath and his steps are small and poorly timed.

"There's somethin' out there, Walter. I can hear it." Johnny hisses.

Walter stops and turns to Johnny in the darkness. "There's nothin' out there, Johnny. You're hearing things."

"DON'T TELL ME WHAT I'M HEARIN' OR NOT HEARIN'! I KNOW WHAT I'M HEARIN'! MAYBE YOU'RE WITH THEM!"

Walter lays his hands lightly on Johnny's chest. "Man, it's going to be okay, we just gotta get back to the tent."

Johnny sighs deeply. "I gotta sit down."

He collapses onto the ground and hunts for the bottle. The longer it takes to find the bottle, the more frantic he becomes. When he finds it, he jerks the bottle out, unscrews the lid, and gulps down a rattling mouthful of vodka. A few seconds pass and Johnny's body begins to shudder.

"Johnny!"

Walter clutches him in a tight embrace, but cannot subdue Johnny's shaking. Johnny grabs him on each side and pushes him away. Walter lands hard against a tree and watches Johnny's shadow vanish into the darkness. All he can hear is the sound of Johnny crashing through the wilderness followed by an alarming silence.

"Johnny, come back!"

Walter struggles to his feet and starts running after him. Johnny is crouched behind a hawthorn bush and can hear Walter coming. The hounds are here and, if they find him, he will fight. They will not get him without a fight. He knows that Walter is helping them. He is leading him into a trap. Johnny's eyes skim the dark in search of his attackers.

"Johnny, let me help you, man! Where are you?" Walter cries out.

Walter is only a few feet away. Johnny reaches into his pocket and touches his knife. The blade pops out with a soft click. He will kill Walter and the hounds. He sees Walter a few inches away and leaps out from behind the bush. He plunges the knife deep into Walter's back again and again.

"Johnny, no!" Walter screams.

Walter tumbles over and lands on his back. Johnny jumps on top of him and grabs a handful of his hair. With a quick slice, he slits Walter's throat from ear to ear.

"You won't bring them to me, you bastard! You're trying to kill me!"

Then, out of the darkness, the hounds came for him.

Faith and Loss - August 2010 Revision

            "You don't look good, Chuck."

            He is a black man in his early fifties who looks ten years older. His name is Charles, but no one calls him that. As a fast rising air officer, Chuck helps build the second Cyclotron at nearby Indiana University. The Cyclotron is a particle accelerator that performs nuclear experiments and it brings both the school and Chuck considerable recognition. He is married, a father of two kids, and owns his own home. However, something is terribly wrong.

            "Jericho?" He is confused and smells of urine and vodka.

            "Yeah, man, it's Jericho. You alright?"

            "No, man, I'm not too good. I ain't done any good in a long time."

            There is a creature in his body that has been there since his birth. It is a coiled, red snake that swallows him whole. He is a successful military officer, but it means nothing. His learning helps build better bombs. He is a father that sees his children as gaping mouths and nothing more. His lack of feeling for them fills him with shame. He marries a woman who gives up so much until his contempt is total. He leaves his job and family on a rainy August morning and always remembers the light coming through the curtains as he left. The living room is a funeral home to him.

            "Where ya goin?" Jericho asks.

            "I need a bottle before I go to 9th Street Park."

            "Lemme help ya, Chuck. I'll get your bottle at Big Red and help you to the park."

            Chuck sighs. "Don't bother. If I don't make it, then fuck it."

            "Fuck that. You could fall and break a leg or go to jail."

            "If I do, I do. Who cares? I sure don't. Maybe I'll get lucky and break my neck."

            Jericho waves his hand at him. "Come on, man, get the fuck up."

            Jericho grabs Chuck's right arm with his own and pulls his limp frame up a few inches. He puts his arm around his shoulder and gets Chuck upright. Chuck does not protest and weaves while struggling to keep his balance.

            "Come on, man."

            Chuck nods and they walk slowly away. Chuck places one foot in front of another like a man walking on ice and Jericho watches closely for any sign of collapse. They are in the hot heart of the summer and downtown Bloomington is busy. The Midwestern heat stirs a sour brew of eighty proof sweat and urine into a dizzying smell. Jericho wonders why he is helping Chuck. He is drunk and the idea of another bottle is appealing, but there is something more. From the moment they meet, Jericho wants to understand why Chuck drinks like he does. He is dying and his eyes are sunken, blood-streaked puddles of yellow clay.

            Jericho leaves him sitting outside the liquor store entrance. When he returns, he finds Chuck lying in the flower planter near the doors. Jericho shakes him by the shoulder.

            "Chuck, man, get the fuck up! They'll call the law!"

            Chuck moves around and mumbles angry, half-formed words. He pulls himself upright and looks at Jericho but does not recognize him.

            "Who the fuck are you?" he slurs.

            Jericho sighs. "You know me, man. It's Jericho."

            "Oh. You got something to drink?"

            "Yeah, man. Let's get outta here."

            They are crossing College Avenue. One of Bloomington's busiest streets, the liquor store, county jail, and a low rent motel are within three blocks of each other. Chuck cannot run and they wait until the traffic passes. Because of his drunkenness, Jericho wants to reach the nearby railroad tracks leading to 9th Street Park to lower the chances of being arrested. They are only a block away.

            Chuck is a broken puppet. He often collapses due to his drinking and two of the falls break both ankles. He fails to seek treatment and walks on the broken bones. Over a short time, the steady stride of a healthy man turns into the inconsistent shuffle of a wayward old man. He is half slumped over and his ratty clothes hang loosely from the frayed black rope of his body.

            "Eatin' much, Chuck?"

            He shrugs. "Sometimes."

            "You gotta take better care of yourself."

            His face tightens at the suggestion. "Why?"

            "I don't wanna see you die. You're a tough motherfucker and if you took care of yourself, you'd have a long life."

            He laughs. "I don't want a long life."

            "Why?"

            "A man is good and I'm no man."

            After leaving his family, Chuck moves to Indianapolis. His family and friends search, but he is another faceless homeless man in a large city. There is no mailing address or phone number to help find him. His drinking takes complete control.  He sleeps in parks, spends time in jail, and feeds himself to the creature within. He searches through dumpsters for food and discovers a baby once. Wrapped in a thick layer of newspaper, the baby cries softly as he takes it out of the dumpster. It is a girl. He thinks of his kids and cries, but the tears do not last long. He lives for his shame alone.

            "Aw, come on, man. I think you oughta forgive and forget."

            "Forgive and forget? I can't forget and there's no forgiveness in this world. The best we do is bury things and get by."

            "I have faith I'll turn out alright."

            "You won't lose it either. You'll give it away, just like me."

            The railroad tracks are a whole new challenge. The old and uneven creosote crossties make it a risky walk and needs reflexes that Chuck does not have. It does not take long for Chuck to fall down. His body blows outward like he fell from high above. Jericho stands over him.

            "This ain't no fuckin' good, man. You've gotta get up."

            He slowly shakes his head. "I can't."

            "Yeah, you can. Just get up slow and lean on me as you're gettin' up."

            Chuck nods and reaches for him. He grabs Jericho's belt to pull himself up and both men fall to the ground. Jericho hits the gravel hard and skins his hand.

            "Fuck!"

            Jericho gets up and stands over Chuck again. He thinks about the other homeless who spend time in 9th Street Park and hopes he can find someone to help him move Chuck before the police see him.

            "Come on, we have to get you off the tracks."

            Jericho takes a deep breath and drags him across the gravel with great effort. Chuck strikes the air in mute objection. When Jericho hears voices nearby, he looks and sees two Bloomington police officers coming towards them. A fat, middle-aged man follows closely behind.

            "Chuck, the fuckin' cops are here! I told ya! Now we're both going to jail."

            Chuck closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Sorry."

            The officers reach them. One has a crew-cut, a clean-shaven face and a dark suntan. He is in his early twenties. The second officer is bulky and middle-aged. His face is swollen and his eyes are larger than normal.

            The younger one speaks first. "Looks like you two are having some problems."

            Jericho frowns and shrugs his shoulders. "My friend's been drinking and I'm tryin' to get him home."

            "Where's he live?"

            "11th Street."

            The older officer speaks. "And you? Have you been drinking?"

            The officers think Jericho is older. If they take him to jail, it will be for public drunkenness and when he gets to the jail, they will find out his age and arrest him for underage drinking as well.

            Jericho shrugs again. "Yeah, I've had some to drink."

            The older officer looks at Chuck. "What's your name?"

            Chuck raises his head a little and opens his mouth to speak. His tongue creeps out from between his purple lips and rolls around. His mouth moves but makes no sound.

            The younger officer snorts. "I'm pretty sure I know where he's going."

            The fat man walks up behind the older officer and points at Jericho. "I saw this one trying to pull the black guy off the railroad tracks."

            "Where do you live?" the older officer asks.

            "436 South Pierce."

            "How much have you drank?"

            "Not much. I drank some whiskey earlier."

            The older officer takes a long look at him. His puffy, freckled face is secrecy and high blood pressure. His giant eyes do not blink and his body is tense and still.

            "Do you think you can make it home?" he asks Jericho.

            Jericho nods. "Yeah, sure. I'm not that drunk."

            "Then I strongly suggest you go there. If we see you out again, we'll take you straight to jail."

            Jericho nods repeatedly. "Of course, no problem. I'll go home and stay there."

            The older officer nods. "Get out of here then. Your friend's going to jail."

            "Alright."

            Jericho turns and walks westward on the railroad tracks. He checks the fifth of vodka hidden in the waistline of his pants. He hears the fat man speaking.

            "I saw the two of them and the black one couldn't stand up, so I figured they were a couple of drunks. I had to call."

            "We're glad you did. If they'd been here when a train came through, it would've been a real mess for us." the older officer says.

            Jericho hears the younger officer laugh. "Wouldn't have been much of a loss. Motherfucker! This drunk fuck pissed all over himself. Let me get my gloves on."

Pity

Pity pours forth in permutations,
A grand gallery of shape and smell.
In the broken circle of humanity,
In the blue teardrop
And the ashen aroma of loss
Pity will find its purchase
And will stand against reason.

Pity has its powers and charms,
A rough alchemy of persuasions,
Kinetic tongues of honey
That relish pandemonium
And the white-hot charge of self-regard.
Pity will find its purchase
And stand against reason.

I want and need your pity now
To reach the meager creature within
With kisses like sweet bruises
That can make worthy again
For all your pity helps me to become.

We Are The Dreamers

We are the dreamers.
Our matchless music
Can silence the sun.

By love we rise
To kiss the mouth of heaven
With fiery fervor.

We are the damaged.
Our sparkling scars
Pulse with passion.

By love we fall
Into the indifferent embrace
Of cold, cautious hearts.

We are the dreamers
And from haunted hands
We can conjure the dawn.

Mercy

Mercy is like a plume of cotton
Blooming from the blue bed of the sea
With starlit strands that divide
The water's glassy dimensions.

Mercy is like a spray of dandelions
Dancing in a billowing sweep,
The fragile yield of such things
Earthbound to seed.

There is no mercy for myself,
Only a fumbling caress
That must suffice to summon
The illusion of intimacy.

My mercy must come
Bursting from the earth
Like a fist of grass
In exaltation.

I will sing for your sanction
With a smoky voice of hope
And the faith that all things
Can live again.

One Day Binge

Something breaks inside
And you’re off.

You always start with some money,
A fifth maybe,
And the whole grim adventure
Fills you with excitement.

You aren’t partial to the bars or taverns,
But it doesn’t really matter
Where you drink.
You aren’t much of a social drinker.
Your preference, such as it is,
Leans towards isolation
Drinking in emaciated woods
With indigent alcoholics twenty years your senior.

The first fifth goes quick.
You never were one to waste time
Chasing down a buzz.
But it isn’t enough.
One bottle is never enough,
But the money is getting scarce.
Somehow, you scrape the money up
For another bottle of cheap vodka
And you’re off once again
On this desperate game.

Conversations are banal and haphazard
Under the weight of this much liquor.
You hear the drunken tales you’ve heard
A million times before
And laugh once again.
You fear the horrors that the morning may bring.
No, God, no. Please, not yet.

Another fifth.
A heavy fog has settled over you
And everyone’s movements have fallen
Into exaggerated eighty-proof slapstick.
Some pass out.
You drift in and out
Of a black out.
All is darkness.
The night is cold when you wake up
And your faithful companions
Are nowhere to be found.
Soiled with piss and spilled liquor,
You stare at the sky above
Asking for answers
From the shrieking silence of God.
You lie there for hours.
It is all you can do.

Look here
At those who admire destruction
As if it were a holy mandate.
As if it were some wicked destiny
Dealt out like revenge
For a glaring lack of courage.