Down the 95

The day was hot
the kind of heat
found beneath the covers
not quite as hot as
a lesbian discovering
her girlfriend pregnant
It's all sweaty
Knocked off a couple a brew
round the White House table
slow movin'
as the breeze past
the open doors
A $1700. Keno winner
bought a couple rounds
Straight pipes roar
down the 95
bring me home
hair straight back
and bugs in my teeth

Dragonflies

As summer inches its way into fall
like a dying old man struggling for one last breath
if one listens closely
one can hear the flutter of dragonflies fucking
and fish jumping
and drunks drinking
and thinkers thinking,
one can hear fall rolling down the hill
with cold nights whispering promise
of frost
as the lakes drain slowly into the fading creeks
if one listens closely
one can hear the flutter of dragonflies fucking

Young Mother

Buffalo chips
Biscuits and gravy
Rain and a
cold bottle a Bud
Love Montana
and the Old Timer Cafe
Columbia Falls
Night owl and The Back Room
Young mother
Short mini skirt
Chewen tobacco
and loud cowboys
Drunk soldiers on leave
5 pieces of Halibut
5 mini corn dogs
for an appetizer
Fry bread and breaded everything
Fries and baked potatoes on the same plate
Wrangler jeans
and girls who rope calves
I'm getting full just writing this
I guess it's the scenery
that I love about Montana

quiet

It’s so fucken quiet
I can hear my sickness
It’s so fucken quiet I can hear my dick think
It’s so fucken quiet I can hear my ice melt
And feel the cards dealt
It’s so fucken quiet my toast burns
As my stomach turns
It’s so fucken quiet I can hear the church bells ring
And the gospel girls sing
It’s so fucken quiet I can feel my conscience drink

She Was

She walked the highwire
above the crowd
she hid in the shadows as
they cried out loud
she wasn't the
main act
but they had seen her before
the custodian and his Mrs.
had blown her kisses
beneath the sky full of stars
she walked the highwire
with scars on her arm
she wasn't the main act
and fearfull of nothing
the custodian and his Mrs.
were there with the kisses
beneath the sky full of stars

Red Wine

“Here’s to red wine stains on your pages of poetry, here’s to money in your pocket, here’s to women in your bed and here’s to food in your satchel.” We cheered to every allowable occasion until we drank the entire bottle of wine. “What say we find us another bottle of red?” Miguel agrees as we enter into the evening of bat filled skies. Our bench is vacant in the center of town. Save for the only acquaintance that of pigeon shit. I always carry a corkscrew in my satchel along with my writings and anticipations. The bottle open and breathing on the cobblestones at our feet, Miguel commences reading me one of his poems about the sadness of losing his right to fatherhood.
I write of a young boy living with no father
The one I was forced to leave.
He sits sadly on a corner
With each breath he takes
It’s the sadness that I breathe.
His face covered by dirt and blankness
with no one to throw the ball.
He’s the one I was forced to leave behind
The one I’ll never rescue from a fall.

U.S.A.

drunken fuck
I knocked over the last of the
Canadian whiskey
there's still beer in a short glass
and pieces of me
floating down the
Clark Fork river
I'm not even in a bad mood
there's still beer
and the night sky
if I don't drop
my little silver pen
many more pages to write
The Russian craft
has a mind of her own
it's a damn shame she can't produce
alcohol on the run.
The fire runs short
burn my fingers
lighting it up
all the fires are burning
back in Canada eh!
there's most likely nothing I prefer
than a good drink
and campfire smoke

Red Hair and Big Tits

He picked me up in the convertible, well actually me and my roomate's ol' lady. She had red hair, big tits and a great ass, we used to refer to her simply as "Tits". It was just following my fall from the cliff. I had broken my shoulder and had a cast on my leg, stomach and nose filled with stitches.
He wanted to go to the beach to see if he could get laid. We rounded the first corner pure and true. The second caught my hand between the fence and the door.... Busted!
With a broken left shoulder and a cast on my leg, my right hand bleeding and a redhead sharing a bucket seat we headed for home. Down to the slum house on Bordon St. He hit the gas hard as we made the right angle turn turning left at the overpass, the passenger door flew wide open. There I was on my ass with a broken left shoulder, a bleeding right hand, stomach and nose filled with stitches, a cast on my leg and a pair of purple Adidas silk shorts skidding atop the pavement with an ass full of pain holding my hand in the air like I was calling out "Bingo"
Well fuck the convertible and a corner with speed
a redhead was in the passenger seat with big tits and a great ass
and she was my roomate's ol' lady.

Simple Need

Miguel’s life likewise was neither favoring as he struggled to be heard. He wrote daily and had three sketchbooks full of art. He often slept in the park drunk on wine. He had never submitted a page. Sure he had read his poems at cafes for young travelers to become parts of the stories but he had never approached a publisher. I told him constantly at night, at the zocolo how he should send some of his work off. As it turns out his art was magnificent. Miguel had a way of capturing the homeless and needy in a poetic manner. The drawings always portrayed someone without the comforts of money or shelter, yet he captured a calm about them even if his characters may have been begging for money on a street corner one could recognize the worth in selflessness. As in his sketches his writings held a certain substance. He could turn the dirtiest hobo into a gentleman, a stormy raining sky into a blissful shower and simple need into poetry. Yet there were many lonely days in Miguel’s life that couldn’t find the pleasantness’ on one of his pages.

Bottle Deposit

Turns out Miguel is the father of a boy in northern Mexico whom he hasn’t seen in a few years, dating back to when he first arrived and became addicted to speed. He tells me that his lover was an alcoholic and they lived well together while consuming their vices; although her family insisted she return home when they found out about the pregnancy. Miguel was asked to leave their village by her family after the boy was born. He had been working at hotels and restaurants along the way making enough money only to maintain a minimal existence. He traveled light as did I, and our experiences differed only slightly over the past few years. I was fortunate enough to have written a few short stories that had been picked up by an independent publisher in Canada. In turn they deposited a few dollars into a royalty account for me bi monthly. It never really amounted to much, but it usually took the tension off of coming up with money for such trivial things as rent. I preferred to physically work as little as possible. My day would usually start off with a couple of beer and tomato juice, then something to eat, something easy like one fried egg lightly seasoned with dried oregano, a dash of salt and pepper and a piece of dry toast which I could make on my hotplate using tin foil I kept folded on the table. I usually drank another couple of beer straight up then wrote poetry or hard luck short stories. In the afternoon I often scoffed the landlord’s bottles for return as this made for affordable drinking. He would accuse me of taking them but he always stored the empties in the same location. I think he was grateful of having me there so he could tell his wife that I wasn’t paying the rent, he would always skim some money off the top for his own secret desires. It all seemed dirty; my entire life had become a dirty bottle deposit return.

Rotten Teeth

He told me
I was getting overweight
He with his rotten teeth
and caved-in face
a couple of hairs
on top of his head
No money in his pocket
and a tank
out of gas
And he told me
I was getting fat
Thats all he said

Miguel

When I unload the bus I notice Miguel sitting on the sidewalk across the street, which is unusual as I only ever run into him at night. “Miguel come drink wine with me, something very strange happened to me today.” Miguel gathers his pencils and his sketchpad, it seems he’s been drawing storefronts and people of the street. “ I didn’t know you are an artist as well as a writer.” “There are many things we don’t know about each other Jack.” “That can’t be more true as I am only now finding out things about myself I didn’t even know.” “Like what?”
Miguel and I return to my musty basement apartment that consists of two small barred windows, a small fridge, hotplate, a bed, small bathroom with a Closter phobic cold water shower, small table and two hardwood chairs. Necessities, simply raw necessities. I clear the contents of the table onto the floor, lay a piece of newsprint down to set the cheese and bread onto and open the bottle of red wine. “Here’s to life!” I raise the bottle to salute then swallow a few good pulls and pass the bottle to Miguel. “Here’s to living writing and fucking, I don’t know in what order to praise.” I fill Miguel in on my experience of the day as we share the wine, fight verbally with the landlord and eat bread and cheese. Miguel shows me the pages of his sketchbooks, what fabulous drawings, pencil, black ink pen and some charcoal drawings.

Rally Weekend

Hell of a weekend
where was the camera when the girls were
drunk and in a pile?
made it three days straight
home to heal
for a couple of days anyway

Junkie

I stand on the sidewalk confused. A garbage truck passes through a standing puddle on the street; it splashes to soak my pant leg. “What luck” I say to myself. A junkie wearing the signature crooked smile passing along the sidewalk grins at me. “Tu querer cocaine?” The junkie stops dead in his tracks. “You hab coke mister?” I negotiate a deal, selling him the plastic wrapped package, containing god only knows what. After he leaves the entire city seems to quiet as I venture into myself. Cars pass on the busy street news-stand attendants sell their trappings although I can’t hear a sound of it. I can’t believe I have a daughter, one that I never knew existed, although Reina did mention that the father was an American and I must have mentioned a hundred times that I am Canadian. I take a deep breath as all the sounds of the city reoccur. I don’t know whether to walk into the traffic, clean up or go get a bottle of wine. I opt for the latter. I made enough selling the package to purchase a roll of bread, a small block of white cheese, a big bottle of red Mexican wine, a bus ticket home and I can even pay the land lord half the rent.

Good Old Days

Jack told me they had threatened him with
a five point restraint
Those were the good old days
Straight-jackets
and beatings by cops
Hardly recognizable
when they were through
His arm
disabled
in one quick thrust
All he was guilty of
was to
sock one of them in the
eye
He told Denny to run
they didn't make it
far
In the morning
Ol' Denny dining on
bacon and eggs
asking the guard for more
coffee
as Jack lay cold, clothless on
the drunk tank
floor
They had hosed him
down
a couple of
times
That was before he
enwrapped himself
in toilet paper
"Take that off
now
or you'll be in a
straight-jacket
for the long weekend"
They filled Denny's cup
with warm brew
as Jack wiped the dried blood
from above his
eyes.

Hobo

You look like a hobo.” “I’ve been writing some and sometimes working as a custodian at your old striptease. No one there knows what happened to you, all they know is that you quit dancing and filtered into the depths of the city without leaving any contact”. “That is the way I wanted it to be Jack I want to leave the past behind.” “What about Estella’s father, did you marry him?” “No”. “Do I know him?” Reina offers no response. “It’s all in the past, now try to do something about that mess of hair.” I consider the age of Estrella. “You say she’s five?” “Si tango sinco anos.” “Reina, is she my daughter?” “Just fix your hair, and here have a piece of gum your breath is horrible.”
“Jack, this is Estrella, Estrella this is Jack.” The shy young girl takes her mothers hand and hides behind her leg. “Come on Estrella say hi to Jack.” “Hello meester.” “She can understand English?” “Well of course she can, she learns it in school, one day we will move to the United States and live with her father.” “Her father is an American?” “Yes.” Reina winks. “I must return for work now Jack we will have to say good by.” “Can I see you again, where do you live?” “No time for that now Jack, don’t worry we will see you again, adios.”

morning

Eyes on me watching my every move.
Studying my every shake.
Left over and vibrating.
The muscle relaxant and half bottle of C.C. wasn’t the calm I anticipated.
No escape as I tremble my way through the travails of the microwave.
Stupid fucking machine.
Can’t stop the shaking.
Feel like passing out.
Not the drunk kind of pass out, moreover like a sick person missing meds.
I fumble through the drawers like a junky searching for a needle.
Shaking withdrawal.
Nerves dropping to the floor into pools of vomit.
The staring ever so present and terrifying persistent glare.
Can’t open the can.
Can’t start the fucking microwave.
Life falls into pools of nerve vomit.
I give up finally on fighting with the microwave.
She opens the can of tomato juice for me to mix with my beer.
I need to get my back to the world.
I lower my head with lack of dignity into pools of vomit,
then drink my morning beer.

Reluctantly I dress and head for the city center, over stuffed bus rides and noise. As the bus nears Guadeloupe Street I shuffle my way through the crowd. Unbelievably through the stained bus window I see Reina in full stride across the street. She looks beautiful, her long black hair drifting in the breeze of pollution. I struggle to get through the bus door and crowd. I call out to her; my call goes unnoticed. I dart through the traffic and diesel smog to reach her nearly getting run down by a passing scooter. I reach for her shoulder; she turns and looks at me for a moment straining for something to say, maybe my name. “It’s me Jack, Jack Hines, Reina you must remember!” “Oh Jack it’s been so long, of course I remember you I’m surprised your still alive.” My heartbeat finds me wordless. I light a smoke to calm myself. “Listen Jack it’s good to see you are still here, but I am in very much of a hurry right now, my daughter she is waiting for me at her school.” “Your daughter! Can’t I at least walk with you?” “Yes but you must walk fast as I am late and tuck in your shirt you look like a bum.” “Reina for years I have dreamt of seeing you, somehow I lost track of you” We walk at a brisk pace avoiding the obstacles along the sidewalk. Reina tells me how she has cleaned her life up and now has a job at a restaurant where her and her daughter Estrella can eat daily. “We live in a small apartment owned by my boss only one block from the restaurant. He is a kind man and has a wonderful wife they have looked after us for many years now, since shortly after you left Jack.” “I didn’t leave, you kicked me out and I believe it was even raining the night you asked me to leave when you sent me away with only a blanket to cover myself in the Rain. And your daughter Estrella, how old is she?” “Esrella she has five years.” “She has a beautiful name.” “Yes Estrella, it means star in Spanish, she is very beautiful as well Jack, you will see. Her school is only a few blocks away so can you please tuck in your shirt and tidy your hair, I want you to look respectable when she meets you.” What have you been doing with your life?

Rent Money

One could clearly make out that Miguel was of Latin decent by looking at his complexion and his high cheekbones. His long hair was held back by a scarf of light satin originating in some poor country where textiles where sold cheaply. He spoke perfect English, I never did ask of his nationality.
I had considered buying some speed. It was readily available in every country in the world, at least the countries I had visited. Junkies were easy to locate by a trained eye. Caved in jowls and lips that formed their toothless crooked cock eyed smiles, not really smiles moreover untrustworthy grin. Miguel had warned me not to invite that devil into my life yet somehow I couldn’t resist. I think it was speed, not exactly an expert on the subject I suppose it could have been anything, never the less we snorted a few lines and then smoked some mixed with Miguel’s dime bag.
I reach for my worn pants that drape over the old wooden hardwood chair; into the pocket again hoping to somehow find the 1000 pesos I had previously discovered missing. A small packet of white powder in plastic wrap is all I find. Either I sell the packet or fall into the grips of addiction. A sudden knock on the door startles me as the landlord announces that he’s on the loose for the rent money, I’m only behind one month, which consists merely of fifty-five dollars. I petition the thought of whether he would be interested in the plastic wrap package. “Go away!” The pounding persists so I answer the door and explain that I’ll have his rent money this afternoon, no later than tonight.

Tattoo

I want a tattoo
but you don't know who I am
I'm a mad artist
and a poor writer
With art in the bowels of
that gallery
with Michael
that short
strange faced man
Telling me I'm
one of his permanent artists
As I suffer through lack of sales
with mad hair in the mirror
Someone said I'd be discovered
in Nelson
but I'm going to Jacksonville
to find myself
Where poets and freaks gather
where poets and freaks are the same
Where my friend will put music to
my word
In Jacksonville
they can give me a tattoo
All I know of this place
is a few pages of newspaper
and a friend
who can put music to
my word
In Jacksonville
they can give me a tattoo
I'll see you there
as I quiver on stage
if I make it
Maybe they'll remember me
and my friend
who puts music to my word

Dime Bag

I lie on my hard bed wearing nothing but black socks, flicking snot from my finger out the glassless barred window. Atop of me an old Mexican blanket faded by the sun. I’ve been carrying the savior of a blanket for years rolled affixed to my pack. It was my sole possession the night I left Reina’s closet apartment. A crusted rooster calls to the humid morning. I’ve been awake since 4:00am with the shakes and a rumbling sickness in my stomach. The morning finds me missing 1000 pesos. A radio loud and steady when the landlord awakens greets my day.
Miguel always said speed was the hardest to quit. I had met Miguel in the center of town, we both frequented the zocalo at night to drink alone and write sad poetry. That was the plan to sit alone yet it seldom ended that way. Miguel carried a dime bag of weed in his back pocket. It was flattened from sitting in the park on hard concrete benches that got cold at night. There he sat nightly puffing on a joint. It may have been the same joint night after night for he only ever had two puffs then put it away after snubbing the little red cherry that had only begun to glow. I guess that’s what brought me to meet him.

who could keep up with that

The night
was hotter than
a hash-oil hot knife
He just wanted to drink
and get drunk
that's all he
wanted to do
Her asshole looked like
it had been in a train wreck
it was hungry
with pain
Long neck wine bottles
and candle stick past
Who could keep up with that?
He just wanted to drink
and get drunk
thats all he wanted to do
His writing was getting dark
His art, piled in the corner
His truck was at the side of the road
with a crack in the glass
and a bottle half through
He just wanted to drink
and get drunk
thats all he wanted to do

At The Cabin

Thought we had grown out of that as the car drifts sideways then backward at an excess of 80mph. Dust pooling up over the rear window as the ditch approaches in a backward backwood skid. He falls from the drivers seat onto the dirt, his head scraped and red. He crawls to the firepit, laying on his side, he attempts to roll a cigarette.

Reina

I had met a young stripper in Mexico where Latin music played so loud to bruise the bananas and cantaloupes. She had led a painfully difficult existence. Thrown from her family at the tender age of thirteen to hustle on the streets of Mexico City where she pulled wallets like toll passes surviving from the riches of her tricks. Prostituting her unripe body to old horny men of the night. She had experienced life at a rapidly accelerated pace. When I first made her acquaintance she was no more than sixteen. I had been robbed of all but a few mere pesos in the hard luck city, which situated me in a desolate bar drinking my last cerveza. Reina that was her name, which in Spanish meant “queen”, carried no pretence to steal from me as she could clearly make out I had nothing but bad luck. She bought a few beers for us as she told me of her existence. The day fell into darkness as she lured me into her realm. I followed her to a dingy closet of an apartment to where we dined on one another for what felt like eternity. She had stolen something from me, my inhibition. She had thrown it out the one small open window through the iron bars that held us in. We performed unprotected sex for months on end until finally she became ill in the mornings. She told me she found a doctor who would gladly exchange a blowjob for an abortion. Which was about the same time as she aborted me from her life. I’ll never forget those days and nights in that dark apartment making love and drinking cheep red wine.

Lies

Tell me you screwed 30 girls in two years,
tell me you knocked out the best street fighter in town,
tell me you can outdrink any fool.
Just don't tell me something you think I wanna hear,
not the sad excuse why my parts are late,
not the line
that I'm next in line with a dozen in front of me.
What the fuck happened,
all of a sudden the world is free to these fucken liers.
Every service manager trained to lie.
I'm telling you,
it seems one needs a mediator
just to get through
the daily bullshitters
bullshitting you
about bullshit.

Further Than She's Ever Gone

She's never left the valley
Not since I've been with her
The old girl
did better than me today
Hit the bottle hard
the night before
had to beat insomnia for the drive
The 351 modified
purred over the mountains
Ditches filled with schitzo
white tail
Ready to leap
at me in 4th gear
at any instant
Nine bears on the trip
never stopped for a photo
Had to tape the
wiper switch on
As rain fell from
the Alberta sky
Stopped at Storm Mountain Service
on our way home
Bought a couple of
Vermillion Lager
and a V-8
She roared up the hill to
Boom Lake
to suck 'em back
That's when I
grew alive
All comes to life
after a couple a cool ones

Stuck Up Bob's Creek

Found the snow line
Backed into a muddy water bar
Drank Old Milwaukee
Cheered to being unstuck
Great day

Tire Tracks

Denny and Jack had been putting in long hours sling'n mud in the pipeline ditches. After twenty straight they were in for a four-day weekend. They loaded into the old white car that Denny had bought from some innocent family. The car they refered to as "The Shark". They had searched every nook and cranny of that old car, ridding it of roaches or anything incriminating as the plan was to cross the border into the land of cheap beer and girls. The border hounds waved them through easy, Jack was disconcerted that they had left all their stash on the Canadian side. So they hit the first gas station for a trunk load of beers. Up and over the Driving To The Sky highway. They landed in some small American town with more than one hideout to drink. The girls were mostly paired up with cowboys, they wore Wrangler pants and western shirts with sleeves rolled to show their tanned brown cowgirl skin. It was going to be difficult as neither Jack nor Denny resembled cowboy appeal. Well Denny wore western boots with his frayed denim pants, it was more of a seventies look than that of western comparison. Jack just appeared as a drunk not much for looks, but man could that guy string a line. It was working for ol' Jack he had cornered two single girls. He worked to accompany them at their table. Not sure how long it took for those two to out-drink the girls and make asses of themselves, but nevertheless they lost 'em. Off to the next watering hole where they had a rotation of women to drink with, but by closing time it was slim pick'ns. I can say they weren't the slimmest girls those boys left with. Denny had been driving, but he decided the girls should drive out of sheer chivalry. Jack hooked up with the one in the rear seat and Denny was sitting close to the driver, he had his arm around her and a smile on his face. Jack began to go crosseyed as he reached for a feel. Dizzy drunk on cheap beer and overweight girls, Jack passed out. When he awoke the following morning, The Shark had came to rest in a widespread field planted tall with some kind of wheat. Denny was passed out in the front seat with his pants rolled down to his knees. Jacks' first concern was that of the wad of cash they communally had rolled and stashed in the long tongue of an ashtray. "Hey Denny wake up, is the money still there?" Denny pulled the ashtray open to find it empty of the roll of cash, then pulled his pants up. "You stupid fucker, why did you let those girls roll us?" "It's not my fault you stupid drunk!" "Well you let them drive." "What's that got to do with anything?" I think Jack swung first, that's how I got the story, but Denny caught him a good one right above the left eye. It split Jack open to bleed on the red interior of the back seat. "That fucken hurt!" Jack said. Denny sat back in the front seat and lit a smoke. "Turn the car on, I'm fucking cold," Jack said wiping the blood from his eyebrow. Denny reached for the keys to notice they were missing, nowhere to be found. "That's just fucking great," Jack retorted. "Shut up or your other eye will be bleeding," Denny offered. Jack slammed the back door behind him and said, "It was a lucky shot and a cheap one at that." "What was that?" Denny questioned. "I gotta take a piss," Jack walked through the trampled tire tracks that had been left behind from the fat girls getaway vehicle, opened his fly and began to piss when he noticed the car keys in the long grass. "Holly shit Denny, look what I found." Jack prided the keys in his hand. Denny had been searching the seats for loose change. "Got enough to get us across the border." They started The Shark, turned up the heater and followed the tire tracks out of the field. Once at the paved road they had no sense of direction, so they flipped a silver dollar that Denny had found down in the crevice of the front seat. "Heads we go right." The coin showed tails. Luckily they drove directly into the little western town, topped the car off with $12.45 and headed for the border.

Hungry Drunks

Jack fell into a deep red wine buzz, pulling his chair near to the wood heater to stir the ambers about. The crackle of the cabin fire kept him close. The slight whisp of sun was falling into the snow-covered afternoon hillside. Jack had been writing throughout the dull grey day. It was evident, Jacks writing hadn't found certain fame. The publishing company had lost his manuscript in a pile of unpublished disappointments. Jack knew he was far from an exceptional writer, he'd have to wait in line. His fingers stained with black ink and saturated red wine. His old friend kept calling, filled with expectation. He felt Jack's writing was soon to be discovered. It was most likely because of his personal accounts within Jacks stories. Hopeful. Yet, fame hadn't shown face at Jack's door in quite some time. Not since the local authorities had drug his name through the mud to publish in the local rag. Something about "public drunkenness" along his way home holding dear to him his gin and tonic, not to spill a drop. Oh those cops couldn't bare to let such eloquent bliss go unnoticed. So they marched old Jack off to the drunk tank to share space with the pyromaniacs,insomniacs and hungry drunks.