Storm's a Comin

Storm's a Comin

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Me and Chuck B.

I grew into this, the abusive binges
of beer, the loathing, the
drunken disgust
resignation
that this is who I am.

Born into Catholicism, into
suburban security
and athlete siblings,
and rich German gravy.

Grew into desperation of
spicy Cajun crawfish,
grew beyond life of the party
beyond seedy or upper class strip joints.
Grew passed the pornography of age.

I am now a devourer,
a reckless, swathing wing,
this beat in time with
fixed forms. Now a lighthouse
to ships adrift, an other worldly
breath of diner food and health
juice, of clove cigarettes and still
cheap beer, or wisdom oft too eager
to speak.

Will still notice the girls in the skirt sitting
on the bench, but will leave her idea to
resonate with another drunk.
This is who I am.

Raw and ravaged, appeal is strong
to disintegrate, re-integrate to this
reality to which I temporarily grew.
Despite it all, no beatings were suffered.
No boils or gargoyle features to overcome.
I’ve always been cooked, sometimes too long.
Never wanted for food or means
never the balls to commit to poverty,
nor the desire. My suffering was and is
my own. Doing.

I’ve had loves, have found love.
Arthritis comes not from work,

But play. Scars from mishaps,
not war.

1/21

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