Things I will quit today: procrastinating, dangerous behavior. Things I will quit eventually: opiates, amphetamines, tobacco (mouth), procrastinating. Things I want to quit: none

Things I want to do tonite: push a weak premise until it shits out nothing but punctuation.

Things Ive done tonite :

My friends, at 31, if I'm enjoying the Private Stock, I wonder what dusty bottle sits on the bottom shelf. If this is the premium, whats in the well? Well, Ive made a list.

I am thankful for: Whitney, Jasper, my dad, my evil female twin who is actually 34 and female, my job.... my experiences : I was one of those shitheads who shouldn't have survived his teens, never mind his twenties, and in my nascent 30s I feel like a soldier without a war. For the past 16 years I have done a fuck of a job trying to kill myself. A ouja board told me Id be dead by 17, so I told my parents Id be rich by 21. Y2K didn't drop a 747 on my head like the cabbie told me it would, I was hitchhiking after my car ran out gas when I had a headfull of blue gelltab acid.

Fuck. There I was 18 and still alive. So like most kids who find themselves alive at 18, I went to college. I didn't die stuffing 300mg of prescription speed up my nose for three months, eating two blister packs of cold medicine, or doing full funnels of blackberry brandy. But I did find myself on thin ice during the first freeze of a New Hampshire October. Four years later, you'll be happy to know that I graduated college, and fuck that ouja board. I was STILL alive.

2004. 23 years of age and ready to take the world by its, I don't know, hand? Not its balls at all. Maybe by its forefinger. Like a toddler shakes hands, I tumbled into shift work, temp jobs, and fifths of brown liquor. Busted 8 balls had me ghostbusting the carpet. One contact lens, stumbling walks in Sunderland.

The highlights : falling in love with a Jersey girl, and pissing on a cop outside the Elm Street Tavern.

2006. Started to account some of the damage in this domain. Look it up. I was still alive and living in the bEAST. Sean, Jay and a rottweiler named Jade saved me when a liter of Jim Beam pushed a TV and a cable box on top of me when I did nothing but try and take my pants off. I sold shit door to door, and bilked the residents of Hartford's fine Albany Avenue out of their welfare checks. Drank my breakfast daily with a salt and pepper superhero salesman from Manchester, UK, and burned out on bourbon whisky and broken promises, briskly did a runner down south to America's phallus. When I got there and found a fedora, threadbare shirt, and the game of tennis, I was remarkably still alive.

2010. 29 years of age and back on Cape. In April I found Whitney. Two years into new job on the water with the love of my life bubbling on my arm, I found the streets paved with opiates. Two bulging discs in my back after losing a game of chicken with a blue hued Saturn sedan, a sympathetic doctor who moved here from Florida turned relief into repast, and help to hindrance.

The winter: laid off, strung out, in love, still alive.

2012. Early fall I turned 31, and two weeks later a cunt named cancer killed my mom. I peaked into the tunnel of life's regression and saw the span of two weeks turn my mother from just that into a raving psycho and subsequently to a vegetable on a life vine of morphine. Bedpans, bedsores and RNs with degrees in mollification. I arrived at her death bed achingly clean to find her room the same way. I took a sabbatical from any attempted sobriety until now.


The ouja lied, planes didn't crush me cause computers can tell the difference between 1999 and 1000, even the Mayans fucked me. My moms last words were, "You don't know what your up against." I figured once again on the eve of 122112, that this was it. Nope. I'll make a go of it with the woman and dog I love. I'll plan for sobriety whilst preparing for life......

While being proud that I made it out of this 40 alive.

Very rarely may an amalgam of South Shore detritus be welded well. Normally the sparks splaying about the workshop peter out. Very rarely do they conjure the conflagration that has become stoked so strongly in a being whose main fire's stasis is a smoldering wet log, that sighs and hisses in the damp fire pit of a sober September.

A scepter wielded by the sorcerer of grief, great swaths ripped by the swats of deftly maincured talons gape your armour. We all have our own images sharpened into a sickle of a personal reaper. Draped in robes or garbed in a tailored suit, a bare skull or a perfect mustache creeps in crepuscular nonchalance. A date rape predator or a guardrail without rumble strips. I grumble and sip and wonder and wish.

Death rattles and ample doses, repositioning preventing soars of a certain unobtainable scab. Seemingly normal questions poised provoke answers obsequious. One jigger of orange juice from concentrate to every protracted absence, and a visit to the nurses station to elicit a joke that jostled normalcy.

Once upon time a verdant August begged from his neighbor, natures equivalent of a cup of sugar. What he got in return were two packets of Splenda and an apology for the dearth.

They chorused the notion that there was no time to prepare, even though an abundance was a normalcy, and, while apologies showered from random places like a rainbow from a broken garden hose, I prepared to quaff my coffee black whilst imploring myself to never enjoy the taste.

So I'd see it I am sure, one night if it stacked up like milk crates; so glaringly obvious only a person mired in the middle might miss it. Slight tares ripping so gapingly, so apparent.
The zoo keepers know when the glass is cracked and the bars are bent. They know before the animals. If the animals knew of course they'd run and eschew their placards. Domesticated and cussing while galloping to their freedom, letting their colors fly like a flag from a freshly conquered keep.
Deep scratches in the paint job are buffed out by the constant companionship, they become glassed over by the humdrum and clear coated over by our favorite world complacency. Shallow surfaced annoyances stand first place on the podium while those who show and place duck the sickle of familiarity with feigned indifference. Some sentences are commuted whilst others just sound good.
Hoping the last one was the latter, the facade dulls and the trim falls off. Neglected shutters on a cottage of humdrum, peeling paint on a cupola of coexistence. Weathervanes of various breezes denoting headwinds from dangerous directions; the sea and tide stacking up, while the whitecaps surf the question. While the answers rollick in the trough, keeling on the truth, one can ascertain dissension.
, Even if shes broken on the shore, We'll be still clinging to the stanchion.

It was here that I was
waylaid by the stagnancy of the humdrum, sitting on
this stool
gutshot and then some. Then some
tinnitus of a long ago
bender began
ringing in my head like some hipster with his Iphone
on the old phone.
A dead one at that,
ringer: I am a dead ringer for the guy that had a good time, but now I despise one.
A disguise from long ago, donning
my party hat nowadays is tantamount
to drinking a beer in the shower
and living dangerously is drinking that beer from a glass bottle. Half throttle,
then full power pulling me down
like a three year old
reaching for a box of Cookie Crisp.
Hucking nips,
out the window on the drive home from another shift
and at the crux of it, I am loving it.
I rarely write now that I am happy. I have my irksome peccadilloes all the same, but with a lady in your life they become compartmentalized. Switch persons in the same sentence that I had commuted when I wrote the Inklinks, which are gone now. It really is all the same. This is a blog. blah blog.

All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer. All happiness, and no complaints make Dave a dull writer.

If there was ever a set of directions that you lost halfway there; figuring that you knew the rest of the way, and then you got hopelessly lost, I am writing to tell you that I was seemingly stuck there forever until ten minutes ago. Read this and you could leave when the next bus does, don't, and let your hubris get the better of you again (you shouldn't have tossed those directions) and be stuck like I was.

First and foremost, meter your doses. Its easier said than done as WE know, but its your best shot at making the bus. A day out here is no problem, three is tricky, a week, fuck, you'll see. Just remember it is a WALL, and a gradual kick instead of an all out slide tackle is the RIGHTERS recommendation.

There is a nice diner on main street with decent hard rolls and fresh coffee . When your appetite returns sit down there and look around and take stock. Many people get lost there, many people are. But they get hungry and have a bite and grumble. Twitching aching corkscrewing backs, hauntingly gaunt busboys vapidly bussing the semi barren booths. At a table "She's got the look" plays INXSessently. Everybody at this waystation has the look, and its only because you do too, that you feel proud that you don't live here.

The hot sills of the aluminum dinner give way to the hostile reminder that your current load is depreciating in value. Desperately dwindling, dawdling over the tab paid and overtipped, you'll stalk into the streets like a September Sunflower, head bobbing to feel the strain in your neck.

The second thing you have to remember is that you shouldn't feel bad in the least if you paid no my mind to the first thing . Ever have half an orgasm, or just the bottom half of a tasty cupcake? Wander down the street freshly reassured that you'll be on your way before the medicine is. Ramble down the street and find this letter in the payphone.

Read it and laugh about its sentiments. You drove here, so you don't need a bus, you can leave when you want but you won't. As far as I know there is an opening at the diner, laugh languidly: fuck no, not me, not ever, but you'll stay awhile longer. Lose that car, and your sense, flip some burgers and bus a few tables, and maybe someday leave a note in the phonebooth.

I got the drain, an ostomy bag for the leakage, another horse another leader at the Preakness. So if you stripped from your soul, lets say maybe the white of your bones; perhaps bleached the color and set him up, your skeleton, your bones, as a mock up for them? Would you believe that you had a spine? A backbone? Some ribs to bare the brunt of the boot? Exhale. Role face first finding fistfuls of grassland ground. Maybe a task another for the list to sort through and figure if maybe you existed in your collegiate form you'd stand up and rattle the cage. Maybe the bars are rusted and your smallest kick.............

Summer drafts, some are draughts, being pulled, the ocean has a foamy head. Headed out cresting waves filling troughs. Summer drafts. Letting go unfurling line after line, then coiling up the ante meridian. Some glass, some cans, sunglass tans and sipping. Some laughs, most canned, but smiling and while stretching knowing July to me, doesn't make it better. Bench seats and tape decks in reverse from the denouement to the apex. Respect. ...

Double the periods and fuck the punctuation, authors leave you shook like the EARFkwake did the HAYSHUNs. Emancipation, doubled up in these quotations, four months back when I started all the hatin. After one comes two then the OHHH then the ten..................

Loose bowels, cold sweats and the succinct cessation of all organs that filter toxins, with a liver as holy as the Eucharist, you perspire a cologne of excreted depleted booze your addled body couldn't process. You pick up the pieces of your life only to shatter them the next night in a oft occurring domestic dispute between the shambles of your morals and the remaining slivers of your hope.

10 more years of this and I just beg my body to give out: to swallow my tongue, to aspirate on a melange of 7-11 sandwich and mountain dew; to have that bolus rest quaintly above my windpipe like a playing card on a pint of IPA and snuff my addled breath neatly from my wasted potential.
Then I stop and think:
thats a great idea.


In college my roommate would have called Whine-one-one for the WAAAAAAAAAAAAAmbulance.

Its not the darkness of addiction its the repitetion of the soiled mornings and questionable accounts of activities, proclivities and penchants, trading a house on Pennzance for a mansion on Seacoast. Ima get me some of the new fangled pills and zone out on an objective. Set some goals and date some women that I can actually stand. Up to. Up to a point, and be blissful.

Growing up I was so Bi-polar I had three somes with Polar bears and penguins. You see they both live on a different poles,
like strippers working the same stage. Like stripers
working the same bait.
I swim and engrossed, engorged, enraged,
and.