a shot from the hip, no wonder it missed.

one of the girls you were always jealous of called last night
just to tell me this tool of an actor reminded her of me.
I said it was strange since we didn't look alike at all.
then I realized that he plays a jerk in a lot of movies.
"maybe he's been typecast, too," I said.
she thought it was just his hairy chest
but told me I could believe what I wanted
like she didn't know I would do that anyway.
you'd know better than to bother;
you should've never worried about those broads
but then again
I should've never given you reason to.

once the gin hits my lips
the shit hits the fan
and those who know what's best
hit the deck
or
like you
they hit the road.
it's not something I'm proud of.
it's just the way it is.

I never understood why Hem and Fitzy
and all those other handsome old devils of the Lost Generation
used to call it "getting tight."
all it ever seems to do is loosen my tongue
and that's what hurt you on more than one occasion
enough to eclipse the hundreds of times it brought you pleasure.
therefore, according to my enabling logic
it's only right that it should be the drunk me that apologizes
once every few months
though if it's any consolation
I'm painfully sober right now.

last week I indulged in a Tuesday night pity party
chasing bad lines with good beer.
I'd go out on the porch for a smoke every couple drinks
the increments shrinking
the smoke-induced gag-reflex growing
as the night wore on.
I saw that spider in its web on the railing again
and burned it with my lighter again
and watched it drop into the bushes again
though I knew it'd be back again
eventually
since home is home
no matter the pain.
right?

driving home from work yesterday
I rubbed my temples and felt two bulbous pimples sprouting
on either side of my forehead
growing where the brim of my hat holds the sweat.
for a second I thought my former female fan club was right
and I was finally taking on the role entirely
by budding horns.
I laughed and flicked a butt out the window
timing it poorly
as a car was passing me in my blindspot.
I'm pretty sure it flew into her window
but didn't stick around for long enough to find out.
I turned at the next intersection and cringed
as I got stuck behind a car I swore was yours.
that used to happen with the first Great One, too
but it's much worse now
since Nissans are more common than Volkswagens.
besides, you never forget your first
but it's your last that really matters.

come on, what d'ya say?
I can't do another season alone, baby.
not in this room with the chipping paint
and lousy ventilation.
give me one more shot
before I give myself one
or twenty
depending on how you choose to interpret.
I promise you'll never catch me
looking up and to the left again;
I've trained my eyes to hide the lies.

this all sounded so much better three minutes ago
before it happened:
the overanalytical pseudo-sign of the night.
I coughed and a fortune from a Chinese dinner months ago
that was laying on my desk floated down and fell on my bare toes:
"To remember is to understand,"
and the LEARN CHINESE section read:
"Xiang-nian ni = Miss You."
well, in that case
xiang-nian ni, honey
but suddenly
after re-reading all this
I remember
and I understand
that I deserve to never rent movies
or cook for two again.







Currently reading:

"The Selected Poems of Dylan Thomas, 1934-1952"
and
"The Rosy Crucifixion, Book One: Sexus" by Henry Miller.