Lost

Where are you my friend
with words
littered by booze

Do you expect me to keep it up for the pair of us?

Transitions

A thousand flies on the window sill
slowed by the season change
Awake mere hours
slow to response.

I grab for my beer
for the first time
with my
left hand.

This is the transition,
first
splitting kindling
now drinking.

At 43
I learn that
only one side
can't
keep the stand of time.

What's next?
The liver will be the
next to go
then sanity
will fall from
the skeletal grip.

And I'll need
PAIN RELIEF
in some form
or another.

Of Wind and Beer

Just fetch me a beer

Fuck off, she says
Honey you've got to be kidding
I've been at it all day.

Yah, me too
you think it's easy
sitting along side the lake in all this wind.
We only had a six pack of Old Milwaukee
the tall ones of course.
But damn I'm still out now
and you know how I hate sobriety.

Chairs of the Cabin

I sit in my cabin on any of the decrepit chairs busting my way through this manuscript. One side of my ass hurts so bad that my neck grows tense. I know it is time for bed, but I love the beer and wine so damn much. My back is in need of a new chair, this one left behind by that mad writer "Fraser". Straight up posture, twisted leg, taped together early 50's vintage. Or the pure luxury studded dinning table chair which is the only cabin original , seat cushion rotted off years ago, but the back support stands out amongst options. The old capuccino bar stool set, vintage early 80's discarded by my neighbours years ago, have seen their day and lean with a twist when used. My late brother Gordon's chair sit's in the living room waiting to devour someone. "The Green Monster". This chair has been in my life since I was 10 years old. Besides my brothers chair in the living space in front of the open fire place, [that is a hit only in the cold of winter] is another circa 50's green arm chair [grandmother's]. This one mildewed on the backside from where the roof leaked overhead. And finally the soft lean twister chair upstairs looking out the window.
Light fades as pen runs dry. There's that polluted little object I fill with M-J, some one put it away. And the girl on the beer-can winks at me and it feels good as light fades the words grow.

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.

Of Mice and Men

Like paranoia on the lamb
Jack lambers
naked
with pistol in hand
The Great Vermin Death Collective
shooting at mice
ricocheting BBs
throughout
the interior
Lying naked, still.
With
pistol in hand

Friday

Out the door to work @ 9:18, uncover the load, no rain overnight.
By 9:30 the rain starts, recover the load and head inside to finish my tea.
Will cut wood instead of roofing until it clears.
At 5:00 the OSB is complete on the first side.
I shall sleep fine with a belly full of Franks and Beans.

Complete and utter silence
carries an
unmistakable tone.

Chet Peculiar

He went by the name of Chet Peculiar. He wore a bowler hat and sported a long scraggly red beard. Chet showed the common signs of aging in that he was greying at the temple and his hair thinning atop. His walk peculiar with his right foot pointed North or East due to the direction of his pace. Perhaps this is how he gained the name "Peculiar". Chet tried to stay to himself, drinking Brady moderately. It seemed no matter how he tried, his attempts for solitude and moderation were all but discarded.

Home for a week

Wednesday Night

Can't imagine that I'll eat much tonight.
Two beer down,
rain on the inside.
The barrel heater's comfort
dries the mildew.

Thursday morning

I only have enough food for one man
and this way I can laze around
nakedly proud
and write poetry
in the dim light of rainy September morning
while the clock
moves slow in
angst perpetual motion.
My hands smell of
cabin mildew
as drops of water land on the floor
missing the catch bucket.

There is everything to do
with installing the new metal roof
yet with the rain and clouds
all I wish to achieve is to
sip on tea
red write and smoke a little.
The second half of September is mine.

I thought the seat would be dry
of which it was not of course.
So I wipe the seat dry
and toss the tissue into the abyss
drop my pants to the top of
my rubber boots
and get ridiculed by a local squirrel.

Thursday night

Five beer in total
Rain till 10:50
started work around 10:00
fabricated rafter ends
7 in total
more rafters than beer in two nights.

Walked lightly to the river
to the bridge
to the night captivating
mountains and trees
before the moon
and
predeceased by the sun
and float home
with nothing to loose

Moths and flies
knock on the door window
wanting the inner light
of the cabin.
The music has faded at 8:12 on the second night.
The moth finds his way in to dance
around the lantern
and burn it's legs off
on the hot glass.
Once is not enough
he's a true addict
flying and burning
and repeating the sequence.
And I wish Jerry was here
there would be no lack of music.
and he would get a kick out of this moth.

Goose Egg

He dropped her and the boy at the airport. The night was finding darkness in the airport shadows. The air crisp, he kissed her good bye as the boy hugged onto his waist. The night was young, perfect for dancing although Jack had never been much of that sort. His desires were to sit in a dirty old pub filled by sweat,smoke and strangers. Or on occasion, a jazz lounge where he could be heard, where people could lend an ear. Jack had a lot to talk about, often comparable to riding a coaster enduring rapid change of degrees. One certainty, the inclusion of excessive drinking bouts. Jack had been drinking prior to dropping her and the boy at the departure gate. As matter of fact, Jack had been drinking a whole lot the last couple of months, it had become such a habit that it had taken away from other pleasures. His motorcycle was rusting and collecting cob webs, canvases stand propped against the studio wall blank. Most of Jacks friends had given up on him. He had suffered a concussion, not one but many, this one was simply the most recent. The doctors had told him more than two decades prior never to take acid again and that it was imperative not to suffer another concussion due to the coma he had laid in for five days. Recently someone had struck him from behind with a blunt object, he had no idea where or whom had delivered the blow. When he regained consciousness his direction and location were obscure and he found himself knee high in the cool waters of Cowboy Country.

A Set Up

ever wish you were some place else?
It happens
been in a funk
then I got a phone call.
It was the cops
said they had something on me.
Told em they ain't got shit.
When I agreed to go to the station
to prove my innocence
I was dumbfounded with their evidence
said they had me on a security video
raping a one legged pan handler in the loading dock
said I didn't know any one legger's.
Told em I was home all night
watch'n midget porn and jerking off
when they said
no one gets off on that shit
I showed them the waist basket full of crusted tissue.
They told me that could be a crime in it's self.
Thats when I out reached my hands and said
put em on then boys.
Turns out they didn't have the room to house me
as they were setting up for a gang bang on a homeless boy
they found beneath the overpass.