First Date

The collar of her jacket had been bothering her from the moment she donned the beige tweed fiasco before leaving the flat. Now she was trapped in a date of the “trying to nail down a life-mate before it’s too late” variety, nestled in a forgivingly private leather booth at the neighbourhood bar. Continue reading

going out west

all roads converge and lead us here
where sand and salt meet in loving tryst
in quest of riches, wealth and fame
whether stage or screen, word or deed
our loving homes we bid sweet farewells
to pack up debts and books and clothes
and check our souls into hopeful hotels
with room and key and address for mail
we live our lives, and dream our dreams
and hope that one day we may be free


make sure she kills me
no kidding
she needs to put me out of my misery
why haven’t I left yet?
have I not proven my worth?
is my purpose on this planet not fulfilled?
I am not destined for this world
please, just end this stupid game
put an end to it all

i’m trying to drink, leave me alone

a moment of rest – of peace
a second or two to drink in quiet
why must man be such a social creature?

Needing, wanting, sucking, pushing,
pulling, gripping, grasping, holding,
never letting go.

every one a fearful panicked squirrel,
never venturing far from the warm nest
full of fetal bodies back at home
afraid to spend a second without
comfort and reassurance

this world of insecurity tires me, drains me,
wears my soul thin to the brittle bone
I realize that not everyone is alike and
comfortable in solitude – but really

has anyone heard of “alone time”?
Is “time out” out of fashion?

can a man sit at a bar without being pestered,
molested and bothered by the idiotic,
infantile, pubescent, pointless, surface-level
that everyday people feel the need
to pour out of their mouths?


against time and the dizzy flows of human traffic
with heart in hand and tears still wet in his eyes
he races toward her

to delirium he had drank himself
under comfort of darkness and the flicker of screen’s silver
the drama of blood and sweat playing before him

as he drank, the torrents came
in the soft cover of black solitude
droplets rolled down rough skin

knowing immediately
it was meant for one woman, he waited eagerly
for the show to end – and he raced

arriving at the bar – hopefully in time –
she would see the wetness in his eyes
the despair in his face

she would see him, truly
the vulnerability in his person, and he would be more
than just another man who fucked her

he arrives at the bar, well before last call
but the woman isn’t there
what is he to do with his sadness?

pour them on the poor bartender
rain them on the happy drinkers around

he turns to the fat man at the end of the bar
sad, lonely, pitiful, with an ugly shirt
loud enough to wake the gods

grunting at the barmaid
as though she were his payed whore
demanding another drink

he walks over and floors the fat man
fist after fist, he pelts down on the fat man’s face
he stops

the fat man rises – panting, sweating, bleeding
he swears in anger, “You fuck!” and throws a punch
which lands unchecked

the fat man beats him down
a lump of bloody pulp on the floor
not a punch is blocked

people pull the fat man off
the barmaid screams murder:
“That’s enough! Get him out!”

he sinks into the pavement
wonders if he will ever be allowed back into the bar
if he should see a doctor

he wonders if his eyes are wet with tears
if anyone sees them, if they even care
that he exists at all, that he cries
face bleeding, body aching
mind spinning down to blackness
he needs to know he is real