I always knew somehow
I'd end up
a drunk.

In some perverse way
it was so cool
and wrong,

the danger
and filth
appealed
to me.

There's romance
to the idea
of being a tortured soul,

though maybe it was just
a neuronic message
from the brain
to the heart;
an inborn riddle
only getting fucked up
solved.

____


I worked in a hospital
counseling alcoholics.
Saw what it was like,
tied down to the bed
pumped full of librium,
tube up your cock,

and left for days

to dry out and come to
enough so
all twitchy and jumbled
these things
formerly known
as sentient beings
would stagger into the day room
clumsily drink juice from straws,
and sit through another three weeks
of group and cards,
before going back out
to where they'd left off.

____


Alcoholism lost a bit of luster
after that,
and I went a long time
barely drinking at all.

But when the shit hit the fan
about 20 years later,
a bad enough
case of the fuckits appeared
to overcome
whatever trepidation
might otherwise
have kept me home.

____


There was always
a part of me
who soberly watched
how those years went down,
who knew
all along
what was what,
and often proudly
held the mirror
to my face.

Blinded by then though,
and stupid, too,

bad as any Sunday morning
when the coffee maker'd
get its way
and piss grounds everywhere
before flying across the room
to explode against the trash can,
only ten times worse,

the focal point
was set
a little bit
closer in,

and so with rum
proceeded instead
to plow up
the weeds, garden flowers,
and anything else
that grew.

____


You may have thought
it was the belly fire
and burned out throat
that brought me back.

Or the cop
not giving a shit
who I still
pretended to be.

Maybe the smile
on my boy's face
in the deeper parts of memory,
burned me through the haze.

Or the still foolish hope
the one I loved
was finally ready again.

But these days
I know better
how some deeper bugle
brought the lights back on,

because truth is
my stomach still hurts,
the boy never left,
the cop didn't have a mission,
the she was never here
in the first place.

Perhaps
it was just
time.
___

Having a life
worth living,
with a shot
at meaning, purpose,
maybe a little joy,
its all
a good
thing.

Waking up
present,
opening
to the universe,
one heartbeat
at a time,

not cool or
righteous,

just here
in the light
of day

riding sea waves,
occasionally making it look easy,
sometimes knowing where my feet rest,
usually just muddling through

in the womb
of the Universe
growing in this aching heart.

____


You can't be like me
drinking
and do any of that,

because it turns out
by most measures
the old life
was just bullshit
and confetti

which couldn't keep
this clinging mind
at bay,

wouldn't quench
the weakest thirst,

and really wasn't cool
at all.

____

And now
here in the cold wind
of early Spring

flowers bloom,
grass grows,
and waking hearts
of fire
and fear
step boldly
into
the morning air.

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