Tuesday Nights

I sit
in the backyard,
drinking
a bottle
of Popov vodka.
I light
a cigarette
and think
about her.
I wonder
if she's out
at a new bar,
with a new
boyfriend,
drinking pitchers
of cheap beer.
I pour
another drink.
My mind gets
good
and numb.
I light
a Pall Mall
and lean back.
I sit there
until
the sun
comes up;
then I watch
the people
go off
to work.
I climb
into bed,
still drunk,
her face
dancing in front
of me
like some
insane ghost.
I fall asleep,
alone.

Pif Magazine

One of my poems, "Phone Call", was published in the latest edition of Pif Magazine. You can view it here: http://www.pifmagazine.com/2018/02/phone-call/

Hexed

Your father
had it;
your grandfather
had it;
his father
did, too:
drinking cold beer
out at
the bar
until 3 a.m.
You wake up
with a hangover
and wonder
how you
got home.
Mark E. Smith
had it,
so did
Bukowski.
And the alcohol
flows and flows
into
your stomach
and your mind
races
like a locomotive
heading down
the track.
You order
another beer
and begin to talk
to a
beautiful woman.
Nothing
comes out of
your mouth
but mumbled
gibberish.
You go home,
sleep it off
and wake up
with a dull pain
in your head.
You reach
for a cigarette.
You try to
comprehend
how this all
even began,
but you'll do it
again tonight,
and again
the night after that,
into infinity,
forever and ever,
amen.