Wednesday, January 13, 2010

poem of the day 01.13.10

one, two, three bourbons

one, two, three bourbons
on a night when i said
i wouldn’t have any

we know we’re getting
too old for this shit

sunday, knocked-out loaded
on sunday afternoon
in a lucid state, watching football playoffs
while you do the bills
and do the laundry
and get me whatever food i can keep down.

i have no clue how it doesn’t
get you in this way.

one, two, three bourbons
on a monday night
after an hour long bus ride

we said we’d take a few days off
but here we are
at the chiseled trough again.

you ask me if i feel guilty
and i tell you no
we took yesterday off from drinking
after i don’t know how long
i feel like that’s good enough
sitting here, this is all right.

one, two, three bourbons
and it would’ve been more
if that bottle had held out

i say maybe tomorrow
i’ll just get us a couple of beers.

we’ll have a couple of beers
and call it a night

one, two, three bourbons

saturday night, i remember well
too well
talking about london again
the burger joint and the bar
jack the drunk playing the moody blues
and carl playing roy orbison
and the dead

it’s just getting harder the next day
i mean i couldn’t come that night
but i was able to get it up in bed
the next morning
so i can’t explain the next few hours

all i know is that vomiting
and praying for death
have become such tired practices
such trite rituals

one, two, three bourbons
and i’m happy that we’re drinking
the good stuff tonight
it means no headache tomorrow
no sore bones
and staggering down the cold hallway
to the sound of the crying cats

that rot guy might come cheap
but i comes at a price, baby.

one, two, three bourbons
i don’t know if i can take it anymore
maybe i’m not built to go the distance
with this
to hell with hemingway and cheever
and all of the rest

i wish there was salvation
or something else to believe in.

ask anyone and they’ll tell you
art just isn’t enough these days

you got to have it all
you got to have more

one, two, three bourbons

you and i know the drill, baby
we know it like those others only pretend
so happy in our dumb glory
so happy

but then what?
but then.

6 comments:

Bukowski's Basement said...

A poem after my own heart... I'm always amazed at how much the bottle disappears, right after I buy it. Gremlins must be drinking my hooch.

What's your poison?

Mine? Evan Williams (cheap stuff)

Woodford Reserve (Good stuff)

John Grochalski said...

my poison is pretty much poison:

scotch: either Inverhouse or Clan MacGregor because i can buy 1.75 liters for under $20.

wine: this cheap frech shit called Rene Judot.

Beer: whatever i can get in 12 pk form for under $10.

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