from "Hungover and Addicted"
by Brent Michael
A former drug addict and alcoholic, salesman and businessman, Brent Michael lives in Kentucky with his demon cat, G. Gordon Kitty. Brent Michael can be contacted in care of .
NOVEMBER She stood in front of the stove tending a pot of barley soup, stirring away thought of her husband. Malted aroma fogged the windows, blocking the final view of Autumn as it swept across the driveway. A flight of geese told the tale.
DEMEROL A collage of karma blazed before my eyes recounting recurrent themes of a lifetime shot full of heater pops and horn blows in Santa Fe’s plaza. I had recently stolen from a thief who stole from a beggarman down in the street, While inside my room a man from the street raised himself from the rubble in the aftermath of the backblast of a hit of demerol. In order to feel better he boosted himself again then ran me up. With the needle sheathed in my vein I kept saying to myself, “No thanks. I’ll pass...” as my head kept nodding.
HORSES THAT NEVER STOP RUNNING
A glimpse at the tote board,
A glance at the tout sheet,
A gnaw on the pencil tip,
A nibble of the cup rim.
A Two-eight Combo can secure the loss.
A rush to the window,
hope dancing.
A cashier takes in the money,
hands back a smirk.
KEMO SABES
No longer can they ride the range,
thundering across broken bottle necks.
No longer can they play insanity games,
faces reflected upon white-streaks.
Their spoons have been melted down,
pipes broken --
Hi Yo Silver.
LEWISVILLE, TEXAS
Beaten by life
we sat beside the interstate
in your
old black Mercury.
The Texas wind
popped the plastic sheeting
where the driver's window should have been.
A shared six pack of Bud
sat between our conversation
busied by ex-wives and better times.
The tepid beer turned to crumpled cans.
Words ran slack.
My thumb aimed northbound.
You and the old Mercury
hobbled
south to Dallas.
RISING TIME Dawn creeps into the bedroom confusion tracks the sun. A rub of eye a shake of head starts deep rumbling. Yesterday's excess awakes. Chest rales and chokes greet morning. With a wheeze, a Marlboro is firmly grasped, inhaled. A small gray cat tiptoes from bed-end -- moves up the calf, stops to knead the thigh, then journeys to push the stomach. The effect is like a blacksmith's bellows, pumping life to fan death's flame.
GETHSEMANI TONAL QUALITY Between the goosebumps and the peal of cool Kentucky bells, I mouth, Father, why?. The words hold a distinctive ring -- the many walls and the several doors passed through until this September morning have improved the acoustics.
DR. PEPPER
The trip around the corner
to Steinmetz's Market
to pick up things for my mother
was a big step for me--
Dr. Pepper and penny candy my treat.
I'd sit on Steinmetz's worn steps
chomping on Mary Jane's and Kits
before venturing home.
Huddling near the iron rail,
I'd scoot closer to its cool blackness,
avoiding adults passing by.
I'd sit on Steinmetz's worn steps
washing the stickiness from my mouth
with frosty swigs of Dr. Pepper.
Now I am middle-age,
ancient history like neighborhood groceries,
forgotten like the Dr. Pepper 10-2-4 logo--
I am sweet summer dreams,
no school,
warhoops echoing beyond Beargrass Creek.
I have shot the Falls of the Ohio,
pushed beyond the Mississippi,
climbed the Maroon Bells at Aspen,
touched the Atlantic and the Pacific,
arrived in Canada and departed Mexico,
traversed the Lone Star and surfed Hawaii,
feasted in Kamakura and feted in Puerto Rico...
I have sat on Steinmetz's steps,
tasted penny candy,
drank Dr. Pepper.
TEARS
I shed tears for the people of the world --
the one's unheard,
the one's heard,
the one's heeded.
I cry for the old.
I cry for the young.
I cry for the in-between --
I cry for you
and I cry for me.
My tears seep
reluctantly
from the corners of my eyes,
run down pages.
My tears drip upon Bosnia,
upon the war-torn everywhere.
They drip upon the poor.
They drip upon the homeless.
They drip upon the heartless --
They drip upon you
and they drip upon me.
I cry because I have tasted injustice.
I cry because I have tasted prejudice.
I cry because I have tasted fear.
I cry because I have tasted love.
I cry because I have tasted happiness.
I cry because I have tasted humanity.
My tears rain down from the middle of depression.
The doctors medicate me, think my tears will go away.
FREE RIDE CLYDE
I met Clyde,
a bearded bo,
across the tracks
from the Sally camp --
Shaggy Clyde,
rugged Clyde,
Clyde with the big Bowie knife on his hip
and the don't fuck with me look in his eye.
All the bos kept their distance from Clyde,
Clyde originally from West-By-God,
Virginia,
who had been hoboing since '59.
Clyde and I took and instant shying
at the meeting place for migrants,
the place where the food was free.
He was Free Clyde on a free ride,
beard blowing in the breeze.
Clyde wanted me to hop a train for Minnie,
wanted me to go hoboing, railroading.
"In Minnie,
welfare give $31 walking around money
just for showing up.," Clyde said.
But fear of a new way of itinerancy
and the jungle people wouldn't let me.
I opted for the highway,
for Seattle
with Oregon in the back of my mind.
But I'll never forget Free Clyde on a free ride,
beard blowing.