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.

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.

Sunglasses, hiding your bags above the drop down ceiling. Jumping the steps into the street with that bounce I have. Mobility. Long walks pushing 10 miles a day. I disappear.

One week in the books with no hiccups. No back pain, no sullied trash cans, no unanswered questions. Being clean, never felt so dirty.

That's the thing about cleaning up your act. Once the trash is in the dumpster you have to do something about the stench. Then when the smell is ionized, you have to wonder what you left that still reeks. Then you start the process again hoping that the filament holds out with all the extra wattage.

I wish I could say that I have been more productive with my time this winter. I've turned some corners only to pit fight larger looming demons. Gutshot and hamstrung. Scraping my knees down Scranton, and crawling up Queen.

I met one once that said I should write more. Tightly, tighten it up. Taught me that scribbling is not painting. Not art. Missed me when she came with shudders that shook me like a paint mixer. Took me buy surprise. Shaken I was horseshoe packed and chasing the ambulance, scurrying for her belongings; baited by her attempt. I only took her seriously. When I should have taken her to get help.

Skulking, no sun since summer. Pasty. Plodding along plotting the song, humming. Hand in hand, ducking cops. Copping. Blown out and dirty like a Korean haircut. Stop. Grab a drink and wake up sweaty in a puddle of piss. Plagiarizing progress while reinventing regression. Obsession, cringing. Shudder.

Tied in noose too late write and when I do I tackle verbal hills in desk chairs, swirling. Rotating whilst sitting, twirling for the sun rise. Busting my ass to break even and shattering only my will to continue. College Road and Pearly Pond seem so far off in the past.

I slapped the shit out of her for fucking with my time to write. Distressed by ambient lighting and fighting for creativity I push commitment to the periphery like the Gravitron. She hates my moustache, I hate her bedbugs. They draw blood like a kindergartner. Sepia based with a smattering of pink. Gangly legs, one eye bigger and green hair. I suppose she makes me feel this small.

I was relieved when she left, but missed her when she was gone. Know that drill? Carbide bit twisting into your lower lumbar. A two month virgin hating his empty bed and dream fucking his body pillow.

The cold she gave me turned into the flu. Busted sick and bootin into the same dirty toilet I sullied with shit a scant second prior. I know this knot. It was tied before. Doubled over sweating and seeing pictures of the past.

Straighten in the mirror shuddering with the last bucks of sickness. Don your work pants. Button your shirt. Call the office every sunday asap. Work with your cowardliness. Gargle water and toothpaste. Have you spat out disgust and stared at your scars?

Broken teeth open brew bottles reaping what you sowed ploughing fallow ground faux smiles and quick quips garnering snickers like fat kids on Halloween. Interstitial, divide your peccadillos for consumption by your friends. Those that laugh, knead, like dough, your friendship.