FLY

We're all gunna ride the big wave to the salt lick in the sky.
Don't know why I give a shit weather I live or die.
Just wanna get bombed and go out with a blast
Like Hunter S. says
They can all kiss my ass.
I'm too fat to fly
Too drunk to fuck
Mix'in rum and tequila
a straight up juicer
tomorrow the week-end
will never die
We're all gunna ride the big wave to the salt lick in the sky.
WOWA YAH BABY!
It's all gunna fly
Mix'n rum and Tequila
too fat to fly.

Vengeance

She went by the name of Candy-Slice, dusty blond and busty. She as well had a background of abuse, that in part was what she was running from. Ken-Rex was her old man. He'd done time for a number of things, when she spoke of him it was with a lustful fear. Lil' Jimmy was fearless assuring her safety. They shacked up in his trailer down on the bayou. All the while she teased nearly every young man, man or boy she came across, always living in harms way. And when she shot pool, she shot it like she shot a gun, with a vengeance.

Childhood

Sure Jimmy had a hard childhood and thats what jaded him as a man , but it gave him a strength comparable to no other. He fought his way through juvenile detention and brawled in pool halls and bars. He drove fast and without a conscience. Thats how he met her. She at the side of the road with a ripped cowboy shirt, dirty denim jeans and a half crazy look in her eyes. She brought him more than lust, she carried a bag full of trouble.

Sister

Lil" Jimmy remembered mud on the soles of his shoes, a pocket of marbles, a pocket-watch that never kept time and being late for chores. He remembered the lash of his fathers black belt and the redened welts on his backside sharp as the knife on his belt. There was a Widemouth Bass he had cought only to have taken by the neighbours adolescent son. Bullies, Lil Jimmy remembered bullies and his hatred toward them. He remembered his sister being raped and how empty it left her. Jimmy had been a good brother. Sure he had silently watched his sister and her friends undress and tease one another through a hole he had widdled in the wall between their rooms. He knew it wasn't right, the way he was aroused by even his own sister, once he came he never thought of her in this way.

Lil' Jimmy

He took him down through the rusted barbed wire fence past the blackbirds spitting sunflower seeds. He took him past the gator holes. The smell of dried blood and fear fueled his anxiety as chickens and a saxophone sounded in the distance. Lil' Jimmy knew it was over when they approached the swamp's slippery edge. He heard one shot, a loud bang. Lil' Jimmy fell to his knees, then to the awaiting swamp water. His eyes went murky, blood filled his mouth, the ringing of the gun shot echoed in his ears. The warm swamp water gentled the loss of air. Lil' Jimmy's life past before him,the abuse and juvy, his first lay and the smell of joy, his young girlfriend's hair and the taste of her lips, the contour of her body. His mother with outreached hands, crying and calling to him from a distance.

My Girl

I burnt her there
the dark haired one
on a can
She
was the last to go
my favorite one
The night
still young
she was the one
the last one
I held
I grasped her
till the end
fell near
Now I can say
"I'm shit outta beer"

Green

She
was looking for
a dime bag
I
was looking to get
rid of a hangover
The river past by
green
Wasn't that the
color she was
looking for
I rode the flow of
the river
down stream
away from her
and had a
beer

Sparks Fly

I'm content to listen
to the train
brake
and the metal
squeel
Sparks fly
benieth a
near full moon
with scotch in hand

Young girls go to the bar
to stretch into their
new jeans
Some of the old men
go to watch
Some of the boys
go to bounce their balls
and be noticed

I go to drink
and sit alone
Too old for the young
and too sane
for the old

Young guys
can carry on about
current nothingness
Old guys search for
for someone
to listen

I'm content to listen
to the train
brake

11:00pm and quiet

Where
where are you now Athena
As I am so
very alone
You and Japhy
on that over stuffed plane
breathing stale air
While I
sit creekside
in the sun
to have my
first beer
I've only the girl
on the beer can
to accompany me
and the smell of you
in memory
You,
not to worry
I can make it
on my own
Without you helping
my every decision
I have
a pizza pretzel
and beer
and the sun
in my face
and the sound of the creek
at my side
I have
heartburn on my hands
and
and, grease around the corner
and that was the end of
my pen
Good night Athena

Story Teller

Just then two wayward British girls in their late twenties come to sit on the bench facing us and notice our bottle. “No bother if you drink here?” “Not here or anywhere else in Mexico as far as I’m aware.” The girls are fresh off the plane out for their first night. “Care to join us for some poetry and wine?” “You are both poets?” “Si, this is my great poet accomplice Miguel, writer of fine poetry and wandering international artist. And I, I am Jack Hines story teller and renowned wino of present fortune.” The girls look at one another searching for guidance and courage. The thinner blond one while looking directly at her brunet friend says “ Maybe we’ll fetch our own bottle, where’s the nearest vender?” “The tienda on the corner sells wine, beer and a vast array of libations.” “You mean that store there, just across the way?” That’s the very one indeed.” I’m on a roll and running blind. The girls perk up and introduce themselves but I only ever retain names for anymore than a brief interlude, so I go ahead and disregard the challenge. The brunet dashes cross the way and returns with an expensive bottle of French wine, which I open for them like a gentleman of stature. After only a couple of sips the girls are loosening up. “How long have you two been in Mexico?” the blond questions. “It feels like home, I’ve been here so long,” replies Miguel. “And I am merely passing through on an expedition of a lifetime.” I offer with gusto. “How long are you girls here for?” Miguel questions. “Possibly a fort night, we want to make our way north to America by spring.” “Yes, eventually to the beach at Venice California.” “Ah, the desire of adventure, that’s what brought Jack here.” “That so Jack? The blond asks. “Yah Jack tell them how you came to be a humble wino poet and story teller in the streets of this fare city.”

The F-King

Jesus those girls are good looking
Who is he? one said
He,
He is the great Fellatio King
Smiling,encrusted by pleasure
He will be buried
on his back
smiling
with the smell of
wine drunk women
The F-King with
scabs on his knees
licking at
everything
half drunk on
wine
Hiding in the shadows of
night
scraping his knees
on the
blacktop

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.