Waking up in the drunk tank
is like no other experience.
There are worse things,
but it never seems so at the time.
Confusion, wonder and worry—
where am I?
And, how did I get here?
What are these bruises?
Is that blood? My blood?
I know this headache but at a lower volume.
Who is talking to me?
Fuck! I’m in jail.
I only know what they tell me
and everybody lies.
Another blackout. No memory.
And nobody ever forgives a drunk.
Not even, especially not, this one.
Look both ways, but every action has consequences regardless of the human condition.
Mind the gaps caused by lost memories.
Liquor goes down easy
and fast
and way, way too easy
and too often takes folks
down ruin’s road.
So why do I?
Since it makes me so queasy.
And nobody loves a drunk
not even another drunk,
okay, maybe sometimes, maybe,
but not after they grow up
or get sober
and we or they make
such an unforgivable mess
and land in such an unrecoverable funk.
It’s best to drink beer—
after eating a full meal,
with dessert and coffee
late at night,
one beer or two might be all right
for you if you’re not
Irish or German,
but then—then what?
It’s gastronomically unclear.
Wine, it seems, might be finely biblical,
if it’s tannins
don’t give you headaches,
hives, or hallucinations and
if it’s warm, cheap, and red,
because white wine
tastes like fermented kerosene,
smells it too,
so we pretend it’s good.
My dearly departed friend,
Jack, held to the standard
that all Dutch courage
must be drinkable.
Good ideas are the worst
when you’re in your cups,
those delusional wonders,
which thankfully rarely occur
except in the tank
or the boot of the hearse.
Look both ways to find the source of the lie.
Mind the growing gaps as they turn memories eternally black.
A little Tom T with his famous beer song, may he rest in peace.
She asked permission to paint her room.
We agreed without knowing anything.
The nineties were pointless trips to nowhere
without boring rhythmic sounds of psychedelia,
like coos of Mexican doves
invading my ears, dulling my brain.
As with straight lines and square corners in nature,
nothing made sense without the age and drugs and booze
opening accepted altered states understood only
by artists who painted strange images upon
home wall canvases in rooms to sleep, to dream.
Unaware of, but fearing, impending nightmarish doom.
Why did monochrome pointlessness happen?
I want to cry. Sometimes die. Because life is a lie.
None of that is possible for the imprisoned people,
unable to see whatever reality there is or isn’t,
when certainty is a soundless death
after a meaningless life of pitiful existence.
Look both ways, but never look back.
Mind the gaps where the music stays.
Our Literary Journey 