Shakes

Jack should have followed Bishop's lead to the East side of the valley. Bishop always on the East side, while Jack scrambled snow covered hills reaching for the last of the afternoon sun on the West. By the time he got to a high ridge the sun was to set in short order. He took Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath" with him and one beer. Jack was shaky and he knew that just one beer could pull him out of it.

The days prior Jack had drank so much just to feed desire that he had plum passed out 'round 6:00pm. He and Buck made their way over the pass headed East toward home. Jack's ribs ached from wrestling with H.D.D., and he resented the fact that he had lost his flashlight in the snow. Buck struggled to keep his eyes ajar as he drove South up the valley.

Jack was welcomed once home but passed up the family hugging for a hot shower to clean himself of a three day smokey drinking binge

Late Night Drive

Up and over Roger's
slipping on frozen
thin layers of frost.
Meeting the ferry
in the snow falling darkness.

Seven tight switch backs
on the unploughed 31 North

Coldness awaits
beer passes time
cold as ice.

Roaring fire
and daylight
warms extremities.

Ice

The stained glass rattled in the window.
There was a slight tinkle from the ice in his brandy
as the train past on the cold night.
The moon was out, yet a cloud cover had rolled in that had dropped crystles of ice, that he ran around collecting in his drink. Most of the company had gone but she was still there in her red dress.. she clung to his mind like frost on water.There was no way she would leave with him, hell, he was on foot and it was cold and what did he expect. Not much, he hadn't thought he had a chance, that was until she motioned him into the kitchen where she let him know that she was tired of her current situation and that she would like to walk home with him, but everyone would notice and that was too much to risk. So he waited outside in the full moon in late November for her to come through those doors alone , but the time would not come and he would find himself more alone than when he arrived.

Uninterrupted

Red eyed
but someone had to write.

Bishop was missing
no one had seen him for days.
His truck was parked in the driveway
next to the wheelbarrow
loaded with fresh snow
and frost.
It had gotten cold and
Jack wondered what had become of Bishop.

Bishop had some big story to tell
and Jack
a gallery show that he was preparing for.
Neither one of them
would make good on their efforts
but they had reserved themselves
uninterrupted.

Yestermorrow

When you eat breakfast for dinner
you know it will be a late night.

Sat round the fire
all day.

Wished my friend
would have stopped on his way.
It's his day so
it's entirely
up to him.

Took in smoke
from fir bark
then I smoked a little for Jer

Heard the music playing
as
I sucked back my beer.

Saw some pictures
Denni Blue
brought by

This is how it was
then I got high.

Lived in a tipi
and Denni
in a tent

Cutt'n trees
and saving on rent.

It was along
while back.

but I can taste it
today.

Shirley-Mae

I miss my mother's
tender touch
and her blackened
bruised skin
her bent fingers
and greyed hair
I miss the most gentle
person
that ever lived.
I miss Shirley-Mae.

Her awake with
champagne in hand.
She took no shit and offered
unconditional love.
And when she left us
the only thing I could say
was
You were
the most
awesome piece of my life.
Bad choice of words
but in her dying
moment she smiled at me.

Afford Love

When they both fall into bed.
The night I own.
I hope they're not angry.
My piss
smells of asparagus.

I pick bottles
in my sleep
to
afford love.

I'd trade
desire
for black eyes.

And I'd fight for real love.
The love that
is canned
and stocked
on
my shelf.

Hard Sun

Like prayers answered
my glass half full
My heart
beating
and
woman at my side.
In the slow season
getting old.
The Hobo fire burns
littering my soul.
Run to the cold
with sun on back.

9-0h

Looking for contenders
ready to ice drag race
never done here before.
Gunna bolt up the Ural
strait pipes
on a strait away.
9-0h
flat out fast.
Looking for contenders.

7-11

Denny Blue entered the 7-11
went straight for the
Slurpie machine,
Pepsi,
always!
Then he spotted
the mini bottle of
red wine,
started mixing in the store.
"Red wine and
Pepsi slurpie,
What are you drunk?"
"Get the hell out of here!"

Ponderosa

The tree I saved
spared by Hydro
a small victory
knowing
there's not another
for tens of miles.

Take Me Away

Tried to clean up the
Tower Turbulator
portable Typewriter
model #603.22
Produced for Sears-Robuck
by Underwood
all the way from
Heartford Connecticut.
Came back from the studio
smelling of mildew
so I headed for the hills
with pen in hand.

Gate-keep

When he reached the gates
of Purgatory
they opened his passport
only to find that he'd been to Hell.

The passport had been stamped
"Failure" and "Remorse".

The gate-keep flipped the page
and could see he'd traveled alone
for a long way.

There was a bottle
of Cyanide
in his handbag
it had been opened
and was only half full.

You don't need no bus pass
to get to hell.
You just need to hitch a ride.

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.