186 Seconds

This was not my first choice.

I can see the light mottled by movement. It is like stained glass,

with its murky greens and tints of blue, the thick black lines cutting

twisting throughout. Framing, dividing, casting its shadows at as I

watch and wait. Time is running up, I need to head out. I’m late-

There is somewhere I have to be, but I’m too far away to make it

in time. My three minute grace period is up. I’m finished, and they

will have to fish my free floating form from the depths of this lake.

Maybe they will have to shoot canon balls dredge my remains.

Attempting to swim free of these frighteningly calm waters, dying

hurts. Drowning wasn’t my first choice.

Skin pale like light filtered through water.

I am clammy, wet, and chilled to the bone,

But I’m alive. Covered in a cold sweat,

gasping, shaking. But

I am alive.

War Games

All is fair in sex and war, the only rule is what you can get away with,

You know what I’m saying when our sand box playing became a war of

attrition. Our common ambition is now complete domination.

My bombshell baby, subtle as a mortar blast. You hit hard, first and fast.

You go for shock and awe. You begin with demands as you use your hands,

a mock hostage situation.

“We will not negotiate with the likes of terrorists”

I go distract the voters with a quick kiss. Because the brain

is the public and the mouth is like congress. Because of the way

you filibuster, debate and confess to your exorbitant military spending.

With our friendly fire, we invade personal space. With hands like tanks

overrunning artillery, which would make legs like a battle at sea. And we,

with our arms race escalate and pick up the pace, we go nuclear and

dive head long into mutually assured destruction. Outside it’s snowing,

as we cuddle in the haze of our nuclear winter, we sleep, the war is over.

Then the United Nations, your roommate comes in glaring daggers at me and

I feel as if in Nuremburg awaiting my trial, charged with “Crimes of Humanity”.

You Know What It Takes

Why don’t we go drink a drop of whiskey.

Fulfilling ambrosia for a functioning alcoholic.

That’s the spirit though spirits did this to me.

This spinning room does nothing for my sobriety.

I’ve been dry much too long I’m getting sick.

Why don’t we go drink a drop of whiskey.

Jack Daniels, Johnny Walker, perhaps Jim Beam.

And wash away all those shaky stutter-step ticks.

That’s the spirit though spirits did this to me.

Lord knows that I could use a drink or two or three.

I need, I NEED a drink to pass through these lips.

Why don’t we go drink a drop of whiskey?

But you’re too too tired of enabling.

You pour out piss and vinegar, your vitriolic.

That’s the spirit though spirits did this to me.

Back in the beginning who did I even aim to be?

I just need some help to make it all click.

Why don’t we go drink a drop of whiskey?

That’s the spirit though spirits did this to me.

Two Addictions

Women to me are like a cigarette.

The chemical rush is so addictive.

A flirt, a tease, a drag, pull those coquettes.

A kiss of either changes how I’ll live.

It always seems harmless the first time.

After you get past that irksome cricket’s voice.

Its not like I am guilty of some crime.

It has always been entirely my choice.

Girls and smoke can both be like a dancer.

Exhale. Sigh. They sway, sink into my heart.

Embedded in veins, creeping like cancer.

But I should have thought of that from the start.

Shortening my life five minutes per rush.

I can’t deny the craving when it’s so lush.

Photograph

“Good people and good times, mistakes and hard feelings poured from a shoe box”
-Peter Morris, “Pictures of You”

Every few years you wake me up.
Digging round the closet, I’m here
Left of the skeletons and Albequerque.

I don’t know why you bother
You suffer when you see me.
Like a Catholic grieving his religion.
How do you think that makes me feel?

I always have a smile when I see you
We reminisce about old jokes, the times man.
Those were some damn good times.

You smile and laugh about back then, but
It’s ruined with that morose grin. Bittersweet Blue.
Then you put your hand on my shoulder,
And you lead me back to my shoe box,
Then you decide it’s okay that I stay awhile more.

A memento of times come and past.
A memory put under glass, I’m here
Watching you, watching me, watching you
Just a smile upon a photograph of two.