red eye

hung over
had a big
Hunter Thompson breakfast
with beer and clam
put on the sun glasses
down low

I lounge out side
sun and a jet stream overhead
take me away

Somewhere In Between

Do you want to edit my work?
Then I'll edit your editing.
Somewhere, somehow the story shall be told.

There was a burning in his chest, it came from the brandy.
He concurred, if anyone had payed attention
to the self addressed stamped envelope,
but when
reply failed
he worried they had not received the
requested thirty pages.
Finally he broke down and lifted the cordless.
Did you not receive the manuscript?
Why then no return of my S.A.S.E.?
Well Sir, I'm certain it's here somewhere.
There has been some changes around here
and, well...
it just got lost in a pile.
What would you like us to do with it
when it surfaces?
Read it, please read it.

Blood on the Road

Jack sits on the stoop, bleeding from his eye and cheekbone. swelling has commenced and his vision is blurred. it wasn't the tumble in Buck's woodpile that hurt his pride, it was when he puked in the truck on the way home that carried the dent. The night was dark and the old Ford's headlights had given up. There was a half moon out, but it didn't shine. It was cold and Jack knew there would be frost on the roof in the morning. Good thing he hadn't scheduled work for the following day because he knew that along with the black eye he would be supporting one hell of a hang over.
The old Ford ran smooth on the way home, but the door panel would have to be cleaned of the vomit. Jack knew in time it would be humourous. Here he was driving down the dirt backroads of the West Koot's, pitch black, puking out the open driver's door. It was a scene from some fucked up independent film.
There was for each of them, a six pack plus Buck always had whiskey but H.D.D. was certain that was not enough. H.D.D. was a trouble maker when drunk, loud and obnoxious. You'd say "black" and he'd say "white". It was like a switch, triggered by alcohol that you couldn't shut off. Jack had ejected him once from the door of his cabin and he couldn't help to wonder if H.D.D. had something to do with the cuts on his face. H.D.D. would never fess up on account of Jack's rages. H.D.D. claimed that Jack had grabbed and squeezed his balls so hard while falling for the pile of wood that they were blue the next day. And Buck couldn't remember a thing, so H.D.D. and Jack would be friends again in a day.

Headed West

The 1 ton is packed
bike in back
and beer overflowing the sides.
The trees cut for another season
the truck with insurance till the end of the month.
Gotta tackel the shaded side of the roof
won't be starting till the frost melts.
Off in the morn
with an early start.

Alvaro Cardona-Hine

The following is a letter that I wrote while at our cabin to an amazing man that we met in Truchas New Mexico. He is a writer, composer and artist.

Today the angels are crying
filling the sky with teardrops.
I can not work on the roof today
for the certainty of accident.
Instead I read your book
"The Half Eaten Angel"
and I regard your literary genius.
I promised you Alvaro,
that in turn for
this wonderful
gift you bestowed upon my wife Athena,
that I would send you a copy
of my book
in which I now feel as inadequate of your reading time.
I have thought this through
many times since first reading your book.
I do have to tell you that "Agapito,"
makes me
witness life in a more natural comparison.

Today I walked to the creek
to fill my water container,
when I noticed on my way that I had forgotten
about an apple tree.
The fruit was sweet and delicious
and so rewarding to find there alone in the wilderness.
I continued across the bridge
over the clear water of the river
to muse
myself with the small spawning Salmon
all red.
I fill my container
noticing the greenest of mosses
covering a shard of rock
and thanked God for this colour
and for the water.
On my return to the cabin
a rooster and hen follow me.
He calling out and she following.
I managed to get a few chores done
around the cabin;
even found a dead tree nearby
to cut into great lengths of firewood
to be digested by my barrel stove.
This afternoon
light is falling
as fast as the rain.
I return to the kitchen
and heat some soup and tea
in the dim orange light of a kerosine lantern.

But first, I must
thank you
for opening my eyes to a world of poetic beauty
that surrounds us daily
seldom noticed.

Hanging A Chicken

A skeletal existence
and girls by the pool
like sunsets on sanded beaches
or blowing a balloon
Art comes in many fashions
from hanging a chicken
to hustling a chick
The express bus awaits
like open church doors
or the blue waves of the Caribbean
Chairs sit unattended
licensed to decay
stone pillars
and
speed bumps
like a wrestling match
with all the
pretty girls eating spaghetti
as it falls
like canada day with no parade
while cats sit idle
licking paws
and menopause
and close the drawers on pedophiles
and packages to Niagara falls
all for $69.
Stairs into the magic garden
and door handles brassed
over flames of time
Father and son performing
one last act
as the old man falls to the floor
like
a black and white picture
She sits in the hallway
painting her nails
as turtles pass in the gutters
it's a steep climb to
the church of good word
Cobbled streets
and iguana shit
dead fish
and new life
armpits of cactus
and palm fron hair
Dark corridors
of skeletal remains
and girls on stilts
in caverns of time
announcing blue light
and brown fields
of swollen feet
and played guitars
Crosses mark the spot
where to exit
the final sunset
like diving in the pool
for the first time.

Getting Laid

Jack stumbles through the threshold
with a gash on his forehead
drunk from the night.
Bishop dropped him at the gate
they had been seen at the wine bar
all smokey from the river fire
and a slight smell of cut-throght.
Jack would sleep in pain
known
they'd be in shit to their knees when they woke.
That damn Bishop, never content with beer
and then to drive his Ford
through the open double doors just to
tell the mayor
that
his hens were laying.

More Rain

Monday

More rain, yet in the afternoon
I drink a beer and brave the wet slope.
I am ashamed I had not done this sooner.
I work until unbearably drenched.
Tomorrow, I shall finish this side of the roof.