Old Crow
Take me to the moonshine still
where we shall rest and drink our fill
beneath that clockwork moon we will
ease our weary bones.

From bed and ditch let us rise
and cast the cobwebs from our eyes
in Old Crow we will be baptized,
far from mean John Law.

For we are tempest tossed and damned
deadbeats tricked by sleight of hand
adrift without the sight of land
come drink with us awhile.
—Darran Anderson

Rondeau for a Barmaid
I know not which I love the best:
Your bartending or your sweet breast;
Your drinks or the curve of your throat.
My heart and liver you have smote;
This world is yours, I’m but a guest

Your grace and whisky warm my chest
Which I love more I’ve not yet guessed.
Does pour or body get my vote?
I know not which.

After drink twelve my love doth crest
I want you mixing while undressed
‘Pon your visage and booze I dote;
To which do my heart I devote?
By face or sprits am I blest?
I know not which.
—Doug Manion

Small Tragedy
The old man stands
silently weeping as
the day’s supply of gin
seeps slowly
through the brown paper bag
and puddles onto the sidewalk.
—Daniel Wenger

The Folly of Youth
Whilst occupying my favorite barstool,
I was challenged by a cocky young fool.
He said “old man, I am able
To drink you under the table.”
By ten he was out in a puddle of drool.
—Dirk Manley

The Thirst
Fear of the unknown fueled
A deep and quenchless craving.

It was real. It was desired.
It tugged at my frame and
Dulled my reflexes.
It rounded the sharp edges
And Lord, it felt good.

The terrible thirst fueled
The fear, which in turn fueled
The thirst. And then.

Into the bowels of hell I
Entered again, with my stomach
Heaving and body retching.

I had nothing to offer, nothing
To puke up except the raw
Scrapings of my soul.

Then I drifted into sweet and
Blessed unconsciousness.
—Roy Eddings

Blacking Out
Because the night was so dark
Because I couldn’t see the door
When I walked into the house
It hurt
—Adam Smith

The Sot With No Name
Tavern Yojimbo
Barroom Continental Op
Drunken discord sown
—Harpo Agnew

050707
We had a big party
Last night
Drank and drank
All day
Now it’s 1:04pm
All those tall brown bottles
Sit sadly
They were once proud
Glistening and ready,
Fearless.
Now, they are empty
A joke
A nuisance
They must be cleaned up
Taken care of
Gotten rid of.
—Matthew Bragg

Jesus in the Dark
He drinks whiskey because it ends life,
Gives birth to existence,
And cleanses the Irish sinners soul anew.
The bar is his confessional

He’ll sit in a dim lit corner
Writing. Purging. Perpetuating.
With the drink
That is married to his lips
Inspiring genius,
But destroying cognitive thought.
I don’t think he minds,
And I wouldn’t mind joining him,
With page and word
Pressed between us.

That’s how you do romance…
With cheap talk and desperation;
And punk rock and whiskey;
And that awkward glance you engage with a stranger.

That’s how you make love…
With marriage of thought and idea
And the merit of thieves
And the empty glass with the last drop

This is how forever begins…
With a stranger in a dark corner
With Irish whiskey
And awkward intriguing glances
With the darkest eyes an angel can behold.
—Betty Mankiller

Three Cinquains
The booze
Wanted my mouth
To quaff it heartily
To feel it warm chest and head
The hooch

Whiskey
Thou art sublime
Man’s greatest achievement
Indispensable potation
Life Juice
—Seamus Dundee

Maudlin
I wish she would drown in the pool in my mind,
But she won’t go near the water.
I guess I’ll have to drown myself.
What’s the difference, really?
Dear Bottle,
I have a proposition for you:
If you take my spirit away,
I’ll take your spirits away.
I’ll do whatever you say;
I just don’t want to feel a thing.
—Ralph Aquila

---

 

The Second Retching
Hurling and hurling at the end of a bender
The drinker cannot hear the bartender;
Things come back up; the stomach cannot hold;
Vomitous filth is loosed upon the bar,
The bile scented filth is loosed, and at the door
The tentative patience is exhausted;
The bouncer lacks compassion, while the rest
Watch me 86ed with righteous disgust.
Shirley, regurgitation is at hand;
Shirley, the Second Retching is at hand.
The Second Retching!  Hardly is this thought formed
When some twisted image out of Dawn of the Dead
Enters my thoughts: somewhere in a tenement basement
A black zombie’s head explodes in bloody chaos.
A viscous mixture of rotgut and Schlitz
Is making its way up my throat and out;
Hate filled glances from indignant passers;
The darkness fills my head, and I must fall
To thirteen hours of dreamless sleep,
Relying on Shirley to get me to bed.
And at what time, what hour tomorrow night,
Shall I belly up to the bar again?
— W. Dirk Yeats

Free Rum
I walked through the automatic doors
and she said
you look like a rum guy.
me? i thought
i had arrived at the liquor store a little drunk
and this seemed surreal.
But there she stood, maybe 22 or 3
offering me a sample of free rum
i smiled at her and said
not only am i a man of rum but
of most spirits.
she gave me what amounted to
a shot on ice.
the rum wasn’t good or bad
it just tasted like free rum
which i guess was good.
as i stood there drinking the free booze
another fellow walked in the store
and she said
you look like a rum guy.
i finished my drink and
felt a little less special.
— John Murray

The Day I Quit the Sauce
It was a Tuesday morning.
Boss called me into the office
told me I reeked. Reeked of sobriety and aspirations.
Told me to box my things and get out.

I passed about thirty bars on my way home.
Neon signal flares of desolation.
I ignored them all. Instead I stopped at Arby’s.
Got mugged and left for dead in the drive-thru.
Three drunks picked me up and took me
to the ER in a grocery cart.
A boozed up surgeon wired my jaw shut
and told me to go home to my wife.

When I got home, my wife took a look at my face
and left me.
Said she was moving in with a bartender across town.
Said his highballs had more kick than mine.
I told her, “Mrrgagglemmerg.”

Swollen, poor, and single, finished with the posturing
I took to the liquor store
where I was immediately denied a bottle of bourbon
because my ID showed a man while my face showed
a blistered tomato.

It was Tuesday night.
My teeth were loose and my mind was tight.
I sat at the bus stop bench and bled a bit.
The old man next to me saw the story in my eyes
and pased over his brown bag.
“Treat her right this time,” he told me.
— Maxwell MacDonald

Can’t Make the Rent
Every sound outside my room
Is the rattling step of Death’s heel bone
And I know I’ve been here before
Where noise is the enemy
And quiet is the sound
Of a bird’s bones being broken under heel
Delicate, yet terrifying

Because the landlord’s knock
Is the mad booming of the railroad cars
And his breath is the raven’s-bellow of horns
Hot and stinking of cheap cigars

I can’t make the rent
But the bottle is close, warm by my side
And I still can’t make the rent, so I hide in the dark
And watch the fiery radio static of my TV
As it shadows my face
And the liquor burns down,
Lights my throat and shields me from the devil’s eye
Lurking outside my window
And I can’t make the rent…again
                So
                                What
— Nick Plumber

Dark Corner
I suck Dewar’s through my teeth
and stare at the blank page.
rebuffing slurred attempts at conversation
“whatcha writin’ there buddy?”
I chose this dark corner for a reason, schmuck
Ignoring suspicious scowls;
certain I’m writing about them.
usually the scotch gets the words flowing,
the warmth seeping through my fingers
to the pen, to the page.
tonight the pen stays cold; so cold I can’t even
write a decent fucking metaphor for writer’s block.
fuck it. at least I’m drunk.
— Harpo Agnew

Night’s Over, Now Deal with the Morning, Pal
The lump on my forehead
was the size of a golf ball and
had a small trickle of dried blood on it.
My room looked like a tornado
had ripped through it.
Everything was on the floor.
Paper, pens, glasses (drinking and seeing)
tables overturned, phone unplugged,
clock blinking 12:00.
None of this brought back any memories
of the previous night’s activities.
The last I could remember was hoping I had purchased
enough vodka.
I guess I had.
I was sweating even though it was cool.
The heat seemed to be coming from some
un-diagnosed ulcer in my belly.
The area on my chest near the heart was sore
from the murderous pace that the organ had undoubtedly
been pumping the night before.
It would fail one day.
I wouldn’t blame it.
Nothing else seemed to be able to live with me,
why would I expect it to?
— John Murray

Dipsomaniacrostic
Feeling the booze flowing in my veins
Under the summer moon
Caring not about the morning, though I
Know it will come too soon
Smoking filterless cigarettes
Ordering my seventh
Bourbon on the rocks
Riposting the drunken, vicious barbs, the
Incoherent utterances of a woman,
Ersatz intellectual who’s
Tippling another vodka & Clamato, about to
Yark on her dog-eared copy of The Fountainhead
—Seamus Dundee

Brothers Three on Magazine Street
I waded through
the bloated bellies
nicotine-stained hands
and wrinkled faces
It was crowded
Mostly there were those
who were no longer tethered
with familial bonds
But scattered here and there
were those few brave souls
who had endured
Christmas dinner with the relatives
and had managed to escape
before the onset of brain death
They were true heroes
They should’ve been given medals
Instead they were given
watered-down drinks
in plastic cups
—Ralph Aquila

Ignominious Slander
Mark Foley, a man on the brink,
Tried to blame his predation on drink.
Oh, venomous dastard,
calumnious bastard,
Don’t taint precious booze with your stink!
—Dirk Manley

face to face at 8:00 a.m.
i look at my face jumping back at me
from the bathroom mirror
ugly
crazy
big black rings hang under beer fueled
sleep deprived swollen eyes

no sleep
writing
drinking
feeling good in the dark with the page
always the page

i smell bacon cooking
coming from one of the apartments
above my head

in about an hour
i’ll start another day in a
stifling hot kitchen
sweat
fire
wounds
a knife’s edge in every sense
blaring mexican ranchero music
and common struggle
under indifferent stress
an unhealthy living at best
but one that makes us proud

but the night long disappeared
in the world of no sleep
the moments that stretch on for years
and years that vanish by the ounce
as seconds betray the day
and the blurred walls threaten me

and the mad words flying out
from somewhere behind this
ugly
crazy
swollen face
ugly, twisted, blurry
fueled by beer and insomnia
and need
and madness
and the page
always the page
—Eric Greenwalt

Lurching from Ethic
Work at four, well, yes a third drink—
only three thirty-four, a story and
a dozey complexion stumbling,
it’s this flu, it’s this stomach,
adage blood with parcels of the stink,
rosy chin to infected nose, brainpan tilt,
and a digiwheel tone from wristwatch
slow by ten says four thirty-one.

Why the drink on the day, the door
to an obvious, heave-ho dismissal?
Too much dance, too little music.

And look now, slipped the pink one.
—Ray Succre

After the old song and dance
is done…a toast
The night was punctured and hollow
and closing in fast
so we hurried a few unlabeled bottles
to keep warm and pacified,
distracting our jaws from the welcoming stretch of skin
that lined each other’s exposed throats.
And maybe to exhume a little truth too.

The bottles emptied quick
and stacked like sentinels
at the gates of a distant cruelty
that we’d passively scratched at for years,
never digging in,
merely practicing another way for two people
who are falling apart
to mark time together.

Patches, single-stitched with booze over open wounds
and promises of more booze
became our anthem of self-reprieve,
cloaking the mirror,
simply delaying the tempestuous storm that would drown us.

And it did.
She left in a ruthless way.
All I could do was smile
through a zipper of smashed teeth
while the centuries receded and dispersed
like clouds into the whites of my eyes.

Now the picture of man in decline,
all maudlin and bleeding,
I reached for a spilt bottle
always at fingers length it seemed,
and righted it to my lips.

It was still breathing…
Prehistoric…..feral…..
and before I sipped, I managed a small toast:
To the brutality of women,
the forgiveness of alcohol
and the shackles of time.
-Maxwell MacDonald

The First Taste
Here’s to the beer that got me here
And the wine that filled in when that failed;
And the caring friends with all their long faces
And my driving that got me twice jailed;
And here’s to the liquor that poured like rain
Gin bourbon tequila they lessened the pain
And here’s to the years that got me here
And to the man that I am,
And here is to you friend,
And to all of yours,
But one thing, if I can;
That all of the wine that tasted so sweet
And the beer that spun me down all those streets
Whatever you favor, and what you might think,
You never forget that very first drink.
Mine was some Bourbon,
Pinched from my Dad,
By my brother and me
We both were just lads,
And like that first woman,
That very first lay,
That sweet taste of whiskey
is still with me today.
—Timothy C. Phillips

---

Oh Lord, I Have Tried
Oh Lord, I have tried.
But you push me, Lord,
With your heat,
Making my abode uninhabitable
During the daylight.
So you push me, Lord,
Out to the bars,
With their ice cold beer,
And their air conditioning,
And their hot women
In their hot weather clothes
That lead to sins of the flesh.
So, Lord, I ask of you forgiveness
For sins I am about to commit.
And when winter rolls around
We’ll talk about how you
Force me to warm bars
With their blood-warming booze
And other hot women
And their body heat.
—John F. Murray

Clues
Peanut shells in my hair
tip me off
that I’ve recently been on a bar floor.
The odor from my mustache
clues me in
that there was vomiting in my recent past.
For the love of Pete, I hope it was mine.
The pain in my arm, ass, and side
insinuates
that I’ve been forcibly ejected from somewhere.
The gravel imbedded in my cheek
might well mean
that I’ve had better landings.
For fuck’s sake, I hope I had fun.
—Seamus Dundee

Never Give Up
A happy old rummy named Ritter,
lured to AA by meddling bullshitter,
had the good sense to flee
before he got to step three,
‘cause who wants to be known as a quitter?
—Dirk Manley

Forget
I don’t drink to forget
I drink to quiet the mad voices of the past
The angry bosses
Unforgiving ex-girlfriends
The ghosts of the dead
And the cost of quiet
Is the color of amber
The taste of regret
The sound of ice in a glass
And one more cheap drink
—Nick Plumber

Upon These Stools
Upon these stools we boozers swill
To wash down this life’s bitter pill
With good bourbon, our common bond.
Let whiskey with our cares abscond,
And reduce our concerns to nil.

We are the drunk. No drop we spill
Of our savior born of the still.
To our prayers our lord does respond
Upon these stools.

Egregious memories we kill
Of coworkers stupid and shrill,
Of smug managers far beyond
The pale with whom we correspond.
And feel better? Ye gods, we will
Upon these stools.
—Doug Manion

War Hero
I listen to the drunken rants
of the veteran at the bar;
how he fought in the Gulf,
risked his life for his country
and now suffers from PTSD.
The kids drunk on PBR hang on his every word.
If only they knew he had been a stenographer
stationed at Ramstein
drinking good German beer.
—Darwin Robeson

Amanda and I love beer
sliding the frosted tops
under our shirttails
we cock our wrists
and send the bottle caps
flying somewhere under
the table into the afterlife
of darts and dice
taking turns buying rounds
and pointing out misspellings
on the magnetic board of
fried foods behind the bar
credit card slips signed
against each other’s backs
telling stories about
kissing with those
very same mouths
—Erin Martin

The Pattern
I wake up feeling sore and cruddy
And head out for a nice tall bloody.
As that begins to cure my ills,
I follow with a pint of pils.
“Another beer!” I quickly order,
“This time make it a pint of porter!
With foot upon the brassy rail
I quaff an India pale ale.
Then, “Barmaid, will you be a sweet dear,
And pour me a nice German wheat beer?”
My head becoming slightly lighter,
For a change, I’ll have a cider.
On food what need is there to dine,
When I can have a barley wine?
My head abuzz, I laugh, I shout,
I promptly drain a pint of stout.
I feel fine, I’m in no trouble,
Why not have a Belgian dubbel?
Of cares I feel not one ripple;
“Yes! I’ll have a Belgian trippel!
This may or may not be iambic,
But after that, a sour lambic.
I glance up at the hated clock,
“Thank God! There’s time to down a bock,
A shot or two of bracing Jager,
And off to home once more I stagger.
I wake up feeling sore and cruddy
And head out for a nice tall bloody…
—Sir Osis

Olfactory Conundrum; a Mondo
In a Denver dive,
The fetid air does offend.
What’s that awful fucking smell?

Ah, the smoking ban.
Cigarettes no longer mask
The vomit and b.o. stench
—Harpo Agnew

Bad Bartender
I consider myself a patient man,
And bartenders are demigods to me.
But I’ve taken about all that I can;
Watching you play while I sit here thirsty.
Your incessant, inane banter doth grate
“I fucking woke up and drank fucking milk.
I fucking watched TV and fucking ate.”
You’ve killed the word “fucking,” you and your ilk.
For Christ’s sake, little girl, get me my drink!
Stop sharing free shots with your whoadude friends.
Your bartending skills, quite honestly, stink.
My patience with you right here and now ends.
I need booze, curse your inattentive hide!
I’m still sober, and this I’ll not abide.
—Doug Manion

---

A.M.
Drunken dreams
ensnare my psyche,
an antidote
to the mundane strife

The fracture lines
between realities
soften,
and questions arise in the light

Anything surreal,
obtuse
that lingers in the morning
undoubtedly did occur, and
perhaps
will make sense
with time
and another drink
—Bob Wallass

Sonnet for a True Friend
The day’s monotony has got me down.
How desperately dull is cube farm life.
My day’s end goal? My sorrows for to drown,
To forget the inanity and strife.
O’ sweet bottle of gin, you fit the bill;
The pressures dissipate ‘pon the first sip.
Beefeater, Tanqueray, or cheapest swill,
You warm me from my head to fingertip.
O’ see how ephemeral are my woes
When the sublime barmaid fills me with drink.
My tongue loosens and conversation flows.
Ah, precious gin, you make this dullard think.
You give me life and help me to forget;
Juniper bev’rage, I am in your debt.
—Doug Manion

Betrayed by Old No. 7; a Haiku
A weak shot of Jack?
Label confirms my worst fears
You motherfuckers
—Harpo Agnew

Literary Whine
Sometimes I drink with Hank,
And we can hear the rain.
Sometimes I drink with Gonzo,
And we can hear the rain.
Sometimes I drink with Papa,
And we can hear the rain.

I have drunk with so many:
Humberts, Marlowes, Falstaffs,
someone called The Judge,
And Eliot Rosewater, too...
And we always hear the rains.

But today I drink with myself
And it is pouring.
—Josh K. McIntyre

Fightin’ MADD
I’ve had my fill of all the MADD mothers
Shrilly attacking the pleasures of others.
Their self-righteous mission
Smacks of prohibition.
They’d bring back Volstead if they had their druthers.
—Dirk Manley

Taking a Stand
I sat on the porch
with my old friend Jim
no cup

things had to change
it was time to take a stand
but first
a swig
in defiance
of everything
then I stood
on drunken legs
pumped my fist at the sky
fell on my face

but I didn’t drop
my good friend Jim.
—Greg Schwartz

Beer-Goggle Bourree
Lift your flagon, my Lad,
And besotted we’ll boast.
Have a second, my Lad.
And to vict’ries we’ll toast.

Wet your whistle, my Lad,
And fair ladies we’ll court.
Drain another, my Lad,
There’s Wild Sal, she’s a sport.

Tip your head back, my Lad,
Gals get more and more fair.
Now keep up there, my Lad,
That one’s eyeing you there.

Vodka shot here, my Lad
And ask her for a dance.
One beer chaser, my Lad,
Wipe that stain off your pants.

Bought you one more, my Lad,
Did she turn you down cold?
Blow the foam off, my Lad,
Hell, she looked kinda old.
—John Orr

A Cautionary Villanelle
Do not you dare divest me of my ale.
I’ve seen that greedy, sneaky look before.
Your larcenous endeavor’s doomed to fail.

I sought this beer as though it were the Grail.
It’s not my fault you can’t afford one more.
Do not you dare divest me of my ale.

Avert your eyes or you’ll need to learn braille.
You already drank yours, son of a whore.
Your larcenous endeavor’s doomed to fail

Accept this, knave: I am the Alpha Male.
You’ll feel my beer defenses come full-bore.
Do not you dare divest me of my ale.

You’ll ache as if you just kissed the third rail,
So just make sure you understand the score:
Your larcenous endeavor’s doomed to fail.

Your want of drink compared to mine doth pale.
Touch it, by Christ, and you’re declaring war.
Do not you dare divest me of my ale.
Your larcenous endeavor’s doomed to fail.
—Doug Manion

The Stink Of Sunday
the smell is unbearable on a sunday
waking up 1:13 in the afternoon
the stench of cigarettes vodka whiskey and beer
flowing together in a river on the floor
and the dried sweat still clinging to white sheets and pale bodies
is enough to make anyone sick
but you get up and walk
through the wet spots and ashes to the kitchen
where the sink is full of glasses and dirty water
but all you can do is sit and watch as the empty bottles on the table
glisten in the sunlight coming through the window
and that picture alone somehow makes it all worth it
—Ryan Harp

---

Gin Tonics and Chicken Wings
I awoke with proud Venus before dawn
in the antelucan haze of delirium
dizzy with an ungodly mesh about my thrapple
I curse the English in India
I curse their malarial veins

The good fight roars inside me
The battle of alkalinity, of hydrogen ions
hisses with a violence of quinine and vinegar
I curse my rent innards
I curse the small fowl

The holy void swallows this wicked menage
as I drift through a somnolent furnace
of crushed bones that give rise to blackened bread
I curse the sea wind of venerate Ishmael
I curse the mysteries and hackles of the chicken coop

I erupt as Etna and wail for sleep.
 —Tyler Smith

one jilted lover, one bottle of whisky
brown paper bag affair – the kind you take to all the joints
you never go to anymore; you don’t bring her home,
you don’t even want memories bumping into this one;
no, you can’t flaunt her, you already know what your friends
will say; still, she tags along – and she must realize she’s only
a hitchhiker and you can’t afford to take her where she wants
to go; she’ll whittle out sympathy with tears if you let her, she
learned to cling early and she holds tight once you’ve let her wrap
herself around you; you drop her off, eventually, leaving her
miles short of her destination with tokens to burn
and a bottle of whisky to spill
—Lee Clark Zumpe

Hit the Road Jack
Hit the road Jack, she said
The things we dream up when we’re drunk
One minute I’m playing piano in Motown
Next I’m swingin’ next to Old Blue Eyes
Then I’m in an alley buying fake coke off a cockeyed Indian in Kathmandu

Hit the road Jack
I’m singing along
Mariposa Traicionera, out loud
Si, circa del sol…no shit, hit me again Gaspar
What do you call this shit anyway, don’t fucking say tequila

Hit the road Jack
Ig’n tell you flatlanders, he said
All yawls’ dog’s legs are the same length
Shine’s what this is, best this side a’ Franklin
T’aint free though, not fer no flatlander anyhow

Hit the road Jack
Lou’s up the apples and pears, she said
With a straight face, as I looked on with amazement
Brad Pitt, eh?
What the fuck, I say, Where’s the pisser for crissake
Upstairs, says a passing stranger

Hit the road Jack
You need a beer, honey? she asks
Jack and Coke please, I say
Keep it open? she asks
As I rapped my blue card on the bar top
Yes, I say…
—Ralphy Shingles

I Drank What?
Pour me my whiskey
Pour me my beer
Drown all my troubles
And chase ‘way my fears
Lift all my burdens
And dry all my tears
Pour me my whiskey
Pour me my beer

When life is a hardship
We all have to cope
Some use religion
Some turn to dope
Some have sex
In deviant ways
I just have lots of drinks
At the end of the day

Now you may be lonely
Isolated and cold
Without a true friend
With whom to grow old
But from this fear
I am thankfully free
For down at the pub
The barkeep’s always there for me

Pour me my whiskey
Pour me my beer
Drown all my troubles
And chase ‘way my fears
Lift all my burdens
And dry all my tears
Pour me my whiskey
Pour me my beer
—Kyle Pogue

Babies and Bourbon
Tina lowered her horns
and splintered into the holding pattern of my Tuesday night
wearing a stethoscope and three inch heels
with two bottles of bourbon strapped to her
like nursing babies
screaming she needs a doctor
we have to operate.

Being a medievalist at heart,
I performed a controlled bloodletting on the first bottle
until the tainted spirits shifted from glass to skin.
Tina was working mouth to mouth on the other bottle
but still no signs of life she said.

It was like that for two or three hours.
We slipped so far under the influence
that we began rounding up the other side
bent on scaring the shit out of sobriety
while his back was turned.

Tina told me I drank the same way a buried man
digs out of his grave:
Frantically.
Writhing like a cut worm, tongue to dirt.

I told her not to turn this into a custody battle.

She poured a little more of our children into a rocks glass.
A barbwire smile riding on the curve of her lips,
then big blackness lowered the curtain mid scene.

The heavy mallet of my bloodstream
drummed against the dented timpani of my heart
waking me deep in the desert of Wednesday.

Tina left behind her heels
cooling off in my refrigerator.
No note.  No bottles.
I reached for the phone
“911 can I help you?”
“Yes.  I’d like to report a kidnapping.”

—Maxwell MacDonald

---

And For a Lot of People That’s a Good Thing
I asked her to edit
the pile
and pull anything
not worth a damn.
She pulled out everything
about me being drunk.
And about our arguing.
And about her
being antagonistic.
I pointed it out.
She maintained
her position
that they just weren’t
as strong as the others.
I entertained that possibility
and remembered
the saying
“A good poem is one
that takes you somewhere.”
and I thought
about drinking
about it not taking me
anywhere
except away.
—Francisco Rodriguez

Six Before Seven
I’m down again, no it don’t take too much these days
She’s gone for good, this time she’s not coming back
But I know a place, where they’ll always accept me
As long as I got the funds, and my liver don’t explode

So if you wanna find me, you know where I’ll be
Six before seven, six before seven
And if you think you’d like to share a drink or three
Six before seven, six before seven

I’m meeting a friend, I’m taking the edge off
I’m treating myself, for doing nothing today
I’m having a nightcap, I’m having a daycap
I’m having the time of my fucking life

So if you wanna find me, you know where I’ll be
Six before seven, six before seven
And if you think you’d like to share a drink or three
Six before seven, six before seven
—John Ensley

Full Moon on a Drunk
The shot glass of whiskey
was too small.
The pint of ale
was too weak.
I’m not drunk enough
if I can still notice
how drunk I am.

I’m standing on a rotted pier,
watching the full moon shine.
But the pier isn’t rotted,
it’s just rotting.
And the moon isn’t full, in fact,
it isn’t even close.
—Tom Traub

A Salesman’s Ode to an Empty Love
With each passing crooked mile,
The hangover intensely extends.
I remember her devilish smile,
Lips my tongue greedily descends.

With each passing hollow night,
My sweet immaculate love is lost,
And in the proof of morning light,
Her memory is absolutely tossed.

With each soaking hurried hour,
She transforms wickedly empty.
I lack the indispensable power,
And will gladly pay any sober fee.

Tonight, to taste her sweet lips again,
Until once more she empty lays.
Up the road, the next jagged bend.
Oh how I hate the long foggy days.
What was her unforgettable name?
It would be proper to remember,
But long ago I chucked the shame.
There is a peace in that surrender.
—Jay Krzyzaniak

Woman on the Landing
Perhaps that is why she felt
She had to shout it.
She was higher up, no better off
Just sober about it.
She said I smelled of life,
And couldn’t stand it.
That I had come home drunk again
As if she thought I’d planned it.
But that is just the way some things happen
And maybe I had failed early,
But at least I’d stuck the landing.
—Josh K. McIntyre

in front of every great drunk
taking shouts along his stride
fuck some dignity and a nine to five
many nice ladies ask him and smile
ice plops and chirps inside such thin glass
liquor spreads into membranes
permiates the legislature
cops are dudes in costumes
call’m uniforms if ya want to
and here this fucker is
snappy cufflinks and all
yeah take my money and intoxicate me
thanks much
thanks much mister bartender
—Ed Norway

As Long as the Booze Holds Out
As long as the booze holds out, baby,
I’m fine.
I don’t care if you say yes, no, or maybe,
Just pass me that bottle and let’s have a drink without cryin’.

As long as the booze is around,
And there’s plenty
I don’t care if you talk to me or if you don’t make a sound.
Either way, thanks to Mr. Beam those words are going to be empty.

As long as the booze doesn’t run out,
I can love you as you are forever.
I wont cry, scream, fit, or pout.
Even if you disappear into the never.

As long as the booze is there for me,
It won’t matter if you are or not.
This is what I am, and what I will always be.
You are difficult, but with that bottle I am easily bought.
—Jamie Creason

from the office to the bar
(a love poem)
i go from one building
to another
one seat
to the next.
they’re really no different,
except one of them has
my soul
and the other one has
my mind.
don’t worry dear, you still have
my heart.
but what’s left for me
in all of this?
the bar tab?
—John A. Grochalski

---

They Never Called Hemingway A Wino
Drifting drunk down 42nd
Beckoned by painted angels fallen from grace
Gray city sidewalks to break their fall
Tall pimps for fathers and johns for boyfriends
Befriended by pushers singing their drugsong—
Smoke acid sniff horse hash sinsemilla, my man, sinsemilla!
Milling past the bad actors of Three-Card Monte and
Haunted winos moaning with their sad change hustles
At shuffling hustlers probing for human frailty
Telling me they know girls who do it any style
While cherubic cops take it all in and grin
Spinning their sticks like big candy canes
Maintaining all the small cogs of the vast urban alibi
While I try conjuring up a down and out Orwell, coming up short
Sighted, finally, an ancient black man in immaculate suit
Stooped on the corner of 42nd and Broadway, asking all passersby—
“Why will it be 2:30 and when?”
And passersby passing him by, not giving a shit
“It’s 4:30,” I stop to say
“Okay!” he whispers, taking my sleeve. “But 2:30? Two-thirty when?”
Again I drift, I couldn’t help him, I didn’t have the time
Reminded by the rain I duck into an all nighter for a drink
Thinking, why is it you starve like Hemingway in a foreign land
And suffer like a homeless wino scumbag under a native sky?
—Ray Finch

A Violin Sings at Midnight
“Who the fuck are YOU!”
I was standing in the bathroom, naked.
Genavie was still in bed
Her mother, apparently, wasn’t.

“Genavie,” she screamed, “Genavie!”
“I’m . . . Jason!” I blurted,
Drunk, shocked, and reaching for a towel
Mother charging through the bathroom

Twenty three is too old to live with your parents
Or at least beyond the ”Don’t even tell the dude” stage
“You’re going out the same FUCKIN’ way you came in!”
She screeched again, she was looking at the window

I considered that maybe I had come in through the window
It was at least possible
I hopped and hoped I had drove
And I didn’t even know what “Genavie!” meant anyway.
—Ralphy Shingles

Hair of the dog got me drunk
When I drink,
I tuck my eyes into the breast pocket of my shirt,
and when I dial them back into my head,
I see one, calm, sober teardrop of everything.

The wine spills on my Desmond Tutu blue carpet
lit up like land mines
in the lost war of last night-
simple stain remembrances,
now strike the eye crisp-
a vibrant detailed map of the Florida Keys.

The stammer of heart turns to fluent Portuguese.
Stretching my legs,
I’m ready to dry hump clouds.
And with cracked lips
and hazardous teeth,
my doctor and I share a moment.
A vodka and Tylenol moment.
His eyes the shade of drugstore yellow,
my doctor proceeds to fund my overdose,
and what was once last night’s undoing
becomes this afternoon’s parachute.
Goggles…check.
Confidence…check.
Swagger…building.
Cash flow….holding steady.

My doctor opens the door of our plane like a sterile needle—
a horizon of what’s good for me lies in the distance.
I unzip my pants and jump.
—Maxwell MacDonald

DRUNK 2
The most boring thing
I know is when I think
I had enough of it.
I grab that whisky bottle
and shake it
to find out there
is nothing in it
save for the vision
of my lost keys.
That makes me puke.
And that makes me
sleep in the streets.
—Papa Osmubal

Thieving Whores
A mimosa morning
Stranded beside the beach, storm offshore
And the waves break early
The rich drive slow in Charleston
And those Mexicans wilt in the sun
I’d help them if I wasn’t already in the weeds
This early on a Tuesday morning
A glass sits there
Unbecomingly half empty
Beside me on the table
In the top are the first ones
In the bottom are the ones still to come
Only flashes of the past week
It seems I’ve had a job, according to the phone call
That I no longer have
A Bloody Mary next, and I can hear the highway calling
How many drinks have been had on the way to brilliance?
This is what I intend to find out
‘Cause isle never know until I try
—Ralphy Shingles

in memory of a bar called “the foot”
here are the patrons
red with drink
screwing their elbows
into the counter
a placenta of smoke
shifts the room
some retard is dancing
with his socks on his hands
and I am too exhausted
to fight him
before the woman
three stools down
can ask me
what’s wrong
i tell her how she
colors her braids
with cow piss
and fake a sneeze
sometimes
i’d rather get drunk
on the roof
of a burning shed
—Sean Kilpatrick

---

So Stay A While Longer
Another round
Another round
James Shannon is buying
Postpone the chores
Turn down the whores
Middle daughter of the Moore’s
She’s the one who pours
the best
Another round
Another round
For Mr. Shannon is buying.
—Bill Cleary

Jagermeister Loves Me
A prize buck is headed my way
It only takes one shot
To lay him down
But
I think I’ll take five.

I thrust my neck backward again
Another moment to think
My lips are cold
Yet
This heat takes my breath.

I’ve been stalking my prey
Since this burn began
His coat is my grail
So
I’ll take another shot.

A drop of sweet brown courage
Falls between my breasts
I stumble to him
And
He has no idea what I am.

The hard floor comes near posthaste
It only took twelve shots
To lay us down
He
Likes the stain on my shirt.
—the notorious n.i.c..

Work One Night
oh Lord
please kill me
hearing bad tunes
played to their potential
I’ve got the shitty bar
in the corner
that no one notices
until it’s too late

let’s see how the evening goes
fuckers
(didn’t even have my cigarette yet)

I’m starting to sober up
and I don’t like it
then there are all these people
dancing
as I wait for someone
to order a fucking drink
it’s graduation for fuck’s sake
so order something
while I can’t see your faces

I’ll just look at the swaying hips
dancing with fathers
so wrong

hurray you graduated
now hopefully life will be
typical
and maybe you’ll finally
let your boyfriend
put it in you cause after all
you did just finish school

people dancing here
is the reason why we have
nuclear weapons
and let’s all pray that
this songs ends
before we need them
­—M.W. Hamel

stainless
at the track
at the ballgame
in the car
at the movies with the duchess
at the funeral home

It was a gift from the second couple I married
inscribed “REVEREND JIM”
ten-ounce stainless with captive cap and funnel
came filled and ready for nuptials, ready for love
the minister’s only fee

suitcoats were made for them
as were jacket pockets and gloveboxes
shaped to sip and stow
and bollocks to those who frown upon my flask
proves how little they know

on the bus, on the train
at the expensive bar where my favorite band plays
before the wedding with the usher and the groom
not on the plane; oh no, plastic for that now

shiny as a new dime, and just in time
let’s step outside and have ourselves a snort

and always right as rain
and always mine to drain
—Rev. James R. Freund

Mahogany
You can tell everybody
I called you in the middle of the night
You can tell them I was drunk
I wanted to know what you were doing

You can tell them you were sleeping
I was in a bar with a woman
You can tell them you were sleeping
I was in the bar with a woman

You can tell them you are the good one
I am in the bar kissing a strange woman
You can tell them you were the good one
I was in the bar loving a strange woman

You can tell everybody you were asleep
I was sleeping with a strange woman
You can tell them you were right
I went to the bar, and didn’t come back.
—Ralphy Shingles

A Typical Afternoon
That’s Jack D. he drinks
And Frankie drinks Crown
Parrot Bay for Steve
Perhaps he’ll then buy a round
Another Amstel for Paul
And one more Rock for ‘Ern
But Gary swore off the “Green Death”
It’s Pabst Blue Ribbon he’ll burn
And J&B goes down smooth
For Vic and his wife
While the Martin’s won’t touch Cutty
No not on your life
Father Patrick prefers Jameson’s
Or Tullamore Dew if there’s any
Though rarely on Friday
When confessions are many
And myself I’ll have a Guinness pint
But if that tap is still broke
I’ll resign to shorten my day here
And get giddy on Cuervo Gold and Coke.
—Bill Cleary

Dear Mr. Officer
Dear Mr. Officer
I was not thinking
Being so tired
I was not thinking

Was neither bourbon nor beer
That led me through your streets
Filled with MADD hatred
I was really just beat

Your sober reactions defeat you
You will never be cool
Because my lawyer tells me
That you were the fool

Have a nice day fascist!

—Marcus

---

The Martini
Guessing at the brand of her Martini
Gaze sidelong so she won’t see me
She’s young and strong with beautiful eyes
Must be Vodka, or Gin in disguise

But she sits alone, and cradles her drink
Could be Gin, but not from the sink
I’ll buy her a drink, but don’t say from I
I’ll watch her reaction, and keep my disguise

I feel the tension, while the ‘keep pours canned heat
She sees the action and looks at my Jack neat
‘Keep serves her up and duly retreats
She sniffs and smiles and crosses her feet

I rise and walk slowly to her neighboring stool
I sit and say, wisely, “This barman’s a fool—
I would have come sooner, but didn’t I know-
That he’d serve you roses, and not potatoes”
—Ralphy Shingles

Army Marching
after eight hours of drinking
and only feeling mildly
that I need to stop
the clearness of the page
begs the answer
to the question

“Continue, for we are but men!”

I shout at my battalions to
continue the assault
lest we upset
or destroy
the enemy
to the extent that
nothing can be written
besides the obvious fate
of the dying

much further to the worst
of all mankind
disappointed
—M.W

Bottoms Up
Ask for a Temple Drake

I know up North, Southerners are scorned
for hillbillies with jugs tilted by elbows,
guzzling lightning. That ain’t
necessarily rite. If y’all are ever lucky
enough to find an ol’ boy who’ll purvey
you radiator-run white, here’s what
you do to impress the captains of commerce
at the Boston Yacht Club: mix it
eight ter one with imported vermouth,
pour her up in a martini glass,
plop in a pickled itsy-bitsy corncob.
Take a taste. That cob ‘ll come in handy—
to wipe yore goddamn Yankee ass.
—John Cantey Knight

With a Twist
If there’s solace in knowledge,
it is aided and abetted by a double
gin martini. Not that
knowledge equates to wisdom,
or pleasure to oblivion, it seems
human beings have their
ways of dealing with the unpleasant.
Indeed! Lies, lies, lies you say,
isn’t that dry, if not 90 proof.
I should know. It doesn’t
go down easy. Stir it some more.
How I deceived myself.
You really were a little whore.
—John Cantey Knight

My Struggle with Alcohol
twisting the neck
untoward bending
wrist strains
veins popping before threads
us or them
it gives
slow crank
metallic unscrewing
the top is off
I pour, winged.
—Chaunce Stanton

Two Drinks Too Drunk
I drop drinks
when I get drunk
and when I drop drinks, I drink

One night I drank
and dropped a drink
for every drink I drank
I got so drunk
I dropped two drinks
then I threw up in the sink
—Dustin Huth

The Skirmish of Mr. Suave
a battle between reason
and audacity
is the direction the evening took
he mistook the whisky
for charm juice
and her disgust for a lustful look
his cigarette aspired
to be suave
as it flailed through the air
she narrowly missed being singed
while prisoner
by selection of chair
drooling he volunteered services
appalled she slapped his face
which is where he landed
on the pavement
too drunk to know disgrace
—Joslyn Miller

The Cure
Ain’t nothin like
a cold beer
gently
coating a
warm depression
on a
generally
normal
evening
—Scott Kaczmarek

---

To Drinks
(with regards to Ben Jonson)
Drink with me and be drunk and free.
Let’s toast to forget her name!
Remind me not that she’s not here;
Tonight girls aren’t our aim.
Desire for her burns real in me
But she returns no flame.
So mine I’ll douse with one more beer,
and Pabst shall be its name.

I sent to her a book of verse --
All rhymed, her favorite kind.
But she knew not ‘til three days later
Just what I had in mind,
When she realized those poems to her
Were really quite unkind.
Her reply was a line much greater.
It read, “Your poems just whine.”
--A.W. Lowder

Drinking Man’s Diet
Oh, I’m on the Drinking Man’s Diet,
It came from a book I was loaned.
It’s really terrific and quite scientific
And I’m half stoned.
For breakfast some cornflakes and vodka,
But cornflakes have carbohydrate;
So I don’t eat those fattening cornflakes,
I eat the vodka straight.
Drink, drink, everyone drink;
It’s not as bad as we used to think.
With every Manhattan your stomach will flatten,
So drink, drink, drink.
The Air Force invented this diet,
A fact which they hotly deny.
Of course they deny it, ‘cause this is the diet
That got the Air Force high.
For lunch you can have three martinis,
What better lunch is there than that?
But caution: do not eat the olives,
‘Cause olives make you fat.
Drink, drink, everyone drink;
It’s not as bad as we used to think.
If pounds you would burn off, then turn on your Smirnoff,
And drink, drink, drink.
For dinner, a nice Scotch and soda
Now that oughtta help you to lose.
No whipped cream, no butter, just lay in the gutter
And booze, booze, booze.
Suppose you should meet a policeman,
Who says you’ve been quenching your thirst;
You just tell him it’s physical fitness
And health comes first!
Drink (hic!), drink (hic!), booze everywhere (hic!);
Pass that decanter of bourbon there.
I’m fatter than ever, but here’s what’s so clever:
I don’t care!
—Kristoffer Blegvad

With a Twist
If there’s solace in knowledge,
it is aided and abetted by a double
gin martini. Not that
knowledge equates to wisdom,
or pleasure to oblivion, it seems
human beings have their
ways of dealing with the unpleasant.
Indeed! Lies, lies, lies you say,
isn’t that dry, if not 90 proof.
I should know. It doesn’t
go down easy. Stir it some more.
How I deceived myself.
You really were a little whore.
—John Cantey Knight

First of the Night
Your tonsils,
your tongue,
your teeth, pallet, and gums
are hotter and drier
than the cruelest of Saharas,
with endless sands and double suns.

The first sip of liquor,
is like a sweet deluge
falling upon
a drought stricken town,
where every child, woman, and man
comes running out onto the street
screaming

“Yes! Yes! Give us Life!”

Then it cascades down,
a liquid nitrogen waterfall,
icing your insides
and crystallizing you
where to speak
the smallest of syllables
would shatter you
into billions
of shimmering pieces.

Finally,
the spirits settle
in your stomach
like some magic dreamstuff
that inspires the indians
who live there
to sing and to dance,
hands clapping,
feet stomping,
spears thumping
around a magnific bonfire
and while crying out
to ancestors past--

the barkeep interrupts
and asks you

in all seriousness

“Do You Want Another?”
—Jim Fisher

Flight of the Swallow(er)s
A nest of chicks, our open beaks demanding,
Ten gullets fed with booze from bar to bar
And when at last there were just we two standing,
We took to foot, having neither wings nor car.

A carnival kaleidoscope, blurred flashing colored light
Singing, shouting, shoving, shooting, more
The epic journey of these booze birds’ flight
Came crashing to an end upon the floor.

Hours turned to minutes in the mind’s eye of the morning
Vague memories of the last night’s roust-about
Of several bars where with and without warning
The barkeep shouted at us “You two, OUT!!”The return journey to the roost remained a mystic trick
And the issue grew more heated as we squawked
“You fucker, YOU drove home!” “No, YOU drove home, you prick!”
Until my brother said “You assholes walked.”
—Uncle Jefe

Remy Martin Blues
It’s incredible how empty
a cognac bottle can get.
—Christopher P. Munden

slow drunk
slow drunk
on gin
and both my hands
holding my head
like the egg
of the answer
that can’t be dropped
but should be slammed
into the walls of this smoking
kingdom burnt around me
and all our land
like lakes gone away
waiting for a seed
we scour our barren selves
for signs of any growth
that are possible
to be proud of.

but tonight i stare
at an empty gin bottle
happy at least
for now
something is inside me.
—Casey Fischer

Missive to My Roommate
If you didn’t want me to drink that gin
Why’d you leave it out to mock me
From the shelf in your closet
Behind that box of old magazines
Wrapped up in a filthy shirt?
Mocking me?
—Paco Rico

---

Home
“Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs.
Not my fault,” He thought he must keep in mind.
Making the most of it is his only chance.
Making his bottle empty.
Drinking and smoking and living.
Watching the smoke ascend from his nose.
Perfect opportunity.
He doesn’t spend his money on fashion, or possessions, or status.
He buys his memories, they are worth the investment.
And to show for it he has only himself.
That’s enough, he tells her, and she believes him.
Because it’s true. He is plenty for her to handle.
Somehow she already knows it.
After her scowls the streets again.
In spades standing upon that mountain of battles and bottles.
And connecting past and present with shots of straight bourbon.
He doesn’t give a shit
Sooner or later he realizes that memories only last a time
Like the sun when it’s slumbering
Moonlight faintly lights his way
And home he goes lumbering.
—Ralphy Shingles

The Drunk
But officer, Please, I really only had one
I was just out having a little bit of fun
I know Sir, that you think I’m a drunk
But if I’m arrested, my poor life is sunk

Oh please give this some more thought
Aren’t there worst villains to be sought?
I am just a `fun guy’ out on the town
Can I help it if I slipped and hit the ground?

A speck of dirt is why my eyes are glassy
I understand, Sir, I don’t mean to be sassy
But my slurred speech doesn’t mean I’m high
Sure I staggered but my bad knee is why

Okay, so I did spend 6 hours in Sweeny’s Bar
And I did partake—but isn’t that what it’s for?
I didn’t want offend my friends, Jim and Jack
Then Samuel Adams and Bud joined the pack

The bottles clinked a lovely song of friendship
And a bond between these men formed a kinship
My glass, never empty, filled before it was done
So technically, I’m right. I really only had one

And I didn’t hear your siren over the loud roar
But I will fix my old muffler on my lawn mower
All and all, Ya got me, I guess my boat is sunk
Oh well, Congrats. You caught yourself a drunk.
—Jay Wilson

Drinking Man
Lord I know I have to die
Don’t know when and don’t know why
I want to die like a drinking man
I want to die with a beer in my hand

I don’t want to go like cattle grazing
I want to go with cups a-raising
I want to die with my head to the sky
A beer in my hand and blood in my eye

I don’t want to die from no disease
I don’t want to die down on my knees
I want to go to the Promised Land
With an ice cold six-pack in my hand

Before they put me in the ground
Let me buy the final round
That’s the way I want to die
A beer in my hand and blood in my eye

When they lay me in my hole
Say a prayer and bless my soul
Let them raise a solemn a toast
To me - the one who drank the most
—Tony Robles

Camp Pendleton
Liberty, 1969
Urinal # 4
If it were
That I was
To piss upon my shoes;
I would look down
And say,
“Shoes, What’s Happening?”
Cause that’s the way I am
And the way I feel;
And I am too,
Too cool;
To be
Fucked with.
—John Calhoun

Last Beer
Never has such hurt
such sadness
thrust upon good times
that smile to a frown
what’s up is now down
all was just great
a world without hate
but never has such pain
such horror
thrust upon good times
for the time is here
this was my last beer
—Dustin L. Boyes

Stephano Remembers
We broke out of our dream into a clearing
and there were all our masters still sneering.
My head bowed, I made jokes and turned away,
living over and over that strange day.

The ship struck before morning. Half part four,
on a huge hogshead of claret I swept ashore
like an evangelist aboard his god:
his will was mine, I laughed and kissed the rod,
and would have walked that foreign countryside
blind drunk, contentedly till my god died;
but finding Trinculo made it a holiday;
two Neapolitans had got away,
and that shipload of scheming toffs we hated
was drowned. Never to be humiliated
again, `I will no more to sea,’ I sang.
Down white empty beaches my voice rang,
and that dear monster, half fish and half man,
went on his knees to me. Oh, Caliban,
you thought I’d take your twisted master’s life;
but a drunk butler’s slower with a knife
than your fine courtiers, your dukes, your kings.
We were distracted by too many things...
the wine, the jokes, the music, fancy gowns.
We were no good as murderers, we were clowns.
—James Simmons

Tomorrow Is the Enemy
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
—Billy Auden

Enlisted by Bacchus
If, my cultured Maecenas, old CratInus was right,
poems written by water-drinkers will never enjoy
long life or acclaim. Since Bacchus enlisted frenzied
poets among his Satyrs and Fauns, the dulcet Muses
have usually smelt of drink first thing in the morning.
His praises of wine prove Homer was fond of the grape;
father Ennius himself never sprang to his tale of arms,
unless he was drunk. ‘The Stock Exchange shall be
reserved for the sober; the stern are forbidden to sing’ since I issued this edict, poets have never ceased
drinking in competition by night, and pickled by day.
—Niall Rudd

---

Empty Refrigerator Perry
Beerless
Coach calls me in
Hands me a ten with a pat on the back
I hustle across three lanes
Breather at the island
See a free path and dash
Dodge a Volkswagen
Driven by a blond in a crooked mesh hat
Inside; “six pack of Bud, my good man”
Paper bagged it
I grabbed it and tucked it
Good and close
Head faked a Jeep and took off
Sprinted over six lanes
Touched the curb
Touch down
Gave one to coach
Took one for myself
Victory dance
—Steve Barker

thirst
Often when I am fading away,
I use one eye to keep myself straight.
Wading through drinks I have done,
empty thirst prohibiting me to run.

Sometimes when I am sinking away,
I wonder. I wallow.
I wait for something else to take me away.
Then I realize I am my own escape.

Lying awake, it is 4 a.m.,
it is not too late
to meet my broken bottle date.
Lying awake, it is 10 a.m.,
it is not too late
to turn around and do it again.

Seldom
my twelve steps are straight.
Blame pours upon the path which I take.
Reality washes away.
Then I realize I am my own mistake.
—Lori Laupmanis

Tonight
Golden light shines
On my drunken splendor
Shots all around
From the bottomless
Bottle of love
Peace washes over
In waves of bourbon
And life is grand
Reality vanishes
In fluorescent advertisements
And you and I
Have never looked so good
Our token adventure is impending
Whiskey soaked moments
Close the gap between worlds
—Chelsea Thomas

THE BAR IS OPEN
The door opens
the coffee flows
one cup or two?
nobody knows
The bell rings
the door goes open
the soda flows
one glass or two
thursty she goes
The crowd enters
the beer flows
one beer or two
nobody cares
It opens your soul
& you fall asleep
asleep in the arms of a beautiful girl
Then you wake up in the arms of a beautiful witch
—Jeremiah Baudrie

Living Dray to Dray
He’d learned a hundred names, and a hundred labels
most belong to bottles, a few belong to people
he had tried to live the life, both oblivious and simple

He sought little more than the beer in the pail,
three squares a day of nuts, pretzels, and ale
There was wine, there was beer, there was liquor
and he need never know a feeling sicker
than missing that barmaid in the baseball cap -
inspiring his retreat, several weeks, to safer taps

But she was engaged, and even some drunks
keep too much within
Move along, he thought, too long in any pub
is one sort of sin
There are plenty fancy wine cellars
and many ‘Dew Drop Inns’
Besides, that is how the wretch
in the mirror sees it
it is alright to be always alone
so long as you never feel it
—Josh K. McIntyre

In Between
the sleep and dream,
the blood and skin,
the nail and the cross,
the doors on either side of death,
Jesus sits at the bar and calls for another.

In between two thousand years
and one long night
he’s getting plastered,
though he swears to God he won’t tomorrow.
But then again, he might.

And you, who want him to be strong,
what would you do
if you had to live up to that?
Your father, the C. E. O. of all production,
and you, his prodigal bastard son.
—Hardy Coleman

---

Bourbon Snitches
Last night
the booze monkeys
crept into my room
reaching for my bottle
I spilt the last swallow
right on my pillow
damn those monkeys
now I have to leave the house

weeping in my socks and shoes
I dressed and headed for the store
grabbed a pint and forty
walking home the booze monkeys called
“What now?”
“Did you get it?”
“Yes”
“Okay, better see who’s at the bar.”
“You’re right.”

Scotty and Joe were there
and the barkeep
I affectionately call “Double Pour”
I knew I was in trouble
or heaven

six friends and eight shots later
I mumbled “Thanks.”
then stumbled home
the booze monkeys
were still up waiting

I cracked the bottle
and opened the beer
as we began our primal ritual
soon the beer was gone
and the bottle was empty

the monkeys had passed out
I set my alarm and scribbled a note
“Dear Booze Monkeys,
thanks for a wonderful time.
Please don’t forget
to call in sick.”

as I laid my head
on my gin soaked pillow
I felt something underneath
the pillow hid a small bottle
of bourbon
“God bless you monkeys”
I thought to myself
as I cracked the bottle
I sure am glad
those monkeys
know how to use the phone
—Peter Flye

Forgetting To Remember
Give me my goddamn keys
Fuck you, I don’t own a car
I’m talking about whiskeys
To the boat
I’m going to row
From the middle
Of this sober sea
To a river in Ireland
To a lake called Glenfiddich
To an island called Mary.
—Tom O’Shanter

The Sorry State of a Former Friend
How many of my loves have left,
Changed for ill by God knows what.
These saw me broken and bereft,
But yours, my friend, was the unkindest cut.

Your amber drops did slake my thirst
And hold the bitter pain at bay.
You kept me sane when my heart burst
On that poisoned Valentine’s Day.

Unfaithful loves and family’s death;
You’ve been with me through times of black.
But now I wait with baited breath
For the quick return of honest Jack.

In a world in which our lot is change,
Constants nowhere to be found,
What kind of mind, except deranged,
Would put a classic in the ground?

A company cares naught for art
They, by nature, have no soul.
Six proof seems a tiny part,
But I’ll not taste again until you’re whole.

How many of my loves have left,
Changed for ill by God knows what.
These saw me broken and bereft,
But yours, my friend, was the unkindest cut.
—Will Butler

Bar Room
Never angels come to me
in all the rooms with wood rubbed raw
by painted cherubs’ cobweb elbows
heads haloed by nicotine
ringlets glowing with dismal in-
candescence. Why drink in places lit-
tered with dull so despairing to seem not dead,
or is it our each sip that slays the world?
—J.S. Johnson

Just One More
I’ll be good tonight, I swear to God
I’m cutting way down, learned my lesson
There’s a good chap, you always were the best
Keep them coming, I just got paid
Why don’t you have one too?
And one for the house
Always a shot away from Paradise, they say
But tonight—tonight we make it all the way
Money? Why I have it right here . . .or here . . . or
I think I left my wallet somewhere else
In some other pair of pants
or a place I’ve never been
How about one on the cuff, old chum?
You can’t cut me off, you dirty bastard
I’m your best customer
and besides, I’m on a roll
Just one more and I’ll go
Just one more and I’ll be there
Just one—listen, I can leave on my own
Eighty-six? What’s that, your IQ?
Get your filthy hands off me
That’s it, I’m gone forever
or until you finish your shift.
Whichever comes first.
—Paco Rico

---

All The Cool Gods Are Dead
Ray's Tiki Lounge
The bar calls itself
But the only proof found
Is a lonely Tiki on a shelf

Crouched behind the bartenders
Who never knew your fame
You watch over my benders
And I don't even know your name

Where are your worshippers?
Where are your proud monks?
Your temple is full of bad tippers
And blasphemous drunks

To your scowl I make a private confession
Swearing to restore you to your prime
I will absorb your forgotten lessons
One fruity drink at a time

Each cocktail a lovely virgin
Sacrificed at your wooden feet
Nonbelievers will tremble like fat men
Supping with a cannibal hungry for meat

I will pump lava back into your veins
Not with Guinness, nor with Stellas
I will resurrect your remains
In the shade of tiny umbrellas

So I say, "Give me a Headhunter so tall
To make the new gods surrender!"
And your smirking Judas cruelly drawls
"Sorry, pal, we ain't got no blender."
—Paco Rico

When We Two Partied
(with apologies to Lord Byron)
When we two partied
In silence and beers
Half broken-hearted
To sever the cheers
Pale grew thy cheek and lone,
Lonely, thy bed
Next day I moaned
“Stop throbbing, damn head.”

Some shots in the morning
Sunk chill in my tummy
Just last night, without warning
We shagged like stoned bunnies
Thy bottles are broken
And cut is thy chase
I hear thy name spoken
But can’t match your face

They name thee before me
And claim you’ve gone dry
A shudder comes o’er me
What madness! And WHY?
They knew not we partied
We partied too well
Long, long, has it scarred thee
QUIT BOOZE? WHAT THE HELL!?

On the pub crawl we met
In pints I sob over
Could thy heart not be wet?
Thy spirit be SOBER?!
If I should meet thee
After long years
How shall I greet thee?
With silence and beers.
—Sham Pain

ALCOHOL
a cruel mistress
Another Friday night
and once again
your concrete,
steel reinforced,
iron-clad promise
of not seeing her
dissolves
like so much
rained upon
cotton candy.

But she won’t come around
(unless you do),
unless she hears
the sound
of your wallet
crying
or catches
the green flash
of cash
coming from your pockets.

And oh how you yearn
to inhale
her dizzying perfume,
softly stroke
her smooth, glassy body,
and then,
like a shy schoolboy,
gently taste
her sweet, sweet wetness.
Soon the fires
of your desire
blaze
like a
blistering inferno,
and she thrusts
her stinging tongue
into your mouth,
she burns,
burns,
burns,
and you burn...
for her,
your face flushes,
your eyes water,
your throat rasps
scratchy moans
of delight.

Consuming her
every last drop,
you’re drowning
in seas of intoxication,
blissful waves battering you,
a swirling whirlpool
drags you to dark depths
where up is down
and down-up.
The blackness of non-time.

A sudden morning sun
blinds you,
it also finds you
lying on the kitchen floor,
sour-mouthed
and penniless,
softly cursing
your cruel mistress.
—Jim Fisher

Booze Blues
Hanging,
like three sheets to the wind.
Morning’s light casts a shadow
on my night of unrepented self-indulgence.
Shots were fired, barrels were emptied,
a casualty to be somehow survived.
Questions but not too many answers.
Who slugged my face?
What was I drinking?
When did I get home?
Where is my Cowboy hat?
Why doesn’t my girlfriend answer her phone?
Do I really need to know?
Perhaps tonight might spill it’s answers
if I go back, wherever that was.
—Brad Lewis

The Lights Went Out
Tired, I sleep putting my head on
the edge of the bar.
settling down for a nice
peaceful rest.
when wham! I hear the slap
of the bartenders hand.
putting another drink in my hand
I see you're empty by the looks
of your face, drink more my friend
the hour is late.
it's good to see you back in the race
keep slugging them down
you need to stay awake.
I hope you know by now
that I’m ready to go
The darkness is starting grow
weak and tired and steady as she goes
I get up from the bar
and the last thing I know
the lights went out.
—Dale Hunt

---

An Alcoholic’s Prayer
Bless ye Lord for alcohol
it get’s me fucking drunk
Praise ye as I take these shots
That make me give a fuck
I bask myself in thy glory
Though I may forget all of it
You blessed me in so many ways
And allowed me to do stupid shit
I put down a fifth and pray
To the holy son
For he allowed me to be a lush
And say things that are dumb
So in honor of your holy name
I’ll get fucked up again
And if my liver rots away
We’ll party together. Amen.
—Richard Hopkins

Blabbermouth’s Lament
When in my greedy grasp a drink is secured
My mouth marbles things untrue and absurd
Verbosity’s atrocities compound
among drone and drawl, an unseemly sound
words spun with confident velocity
overcoming semantic paucity
lines get drawn in the proverbial sands
then blurred by long winds no one understands
nothing said of truth on a tongue tailored
to sail through seas on ships unsailored
far from home ‘round the Cape of Hopeless Deeds
language shat into the air on which it feeds
lost to meaning as shadows to the sun
my ramblings raise ire from everyone.
—Ben Lybarger

Returnables
Her feet get caught up
In the maze of beer bottles
Stacked underneath this table
Upon which I’ve served
Breakfast such as it is,
And she gives me a look,
Her head down
Her brown eyes raised
An eyebrow cocked
And says...

Nothing.

Three days later
And a Korean kid
Is handing me cash
For the trunkload
Of bottles and cans
I’ve just returned.

Who says women
Can’t improve
Their man?
—Mike Emler

A three day bender and she’s still not straight
She Sips and Thinks
about Zen monks smoking
Lucky strikes out at the bottom of the ninth
the Vatican has a time machine they use to take pictures of the Crucifixion
they never show them to anyone, they just pass out parting gifts that never leave
Her scotch is on the rocks, but she’s in love and wants it to work out
she always thought she would be happy like her parents
but they’re a tough shoe to swallow
She writes her name over and over on a cocktail napkin
but it’s not his, not this time.
All she ever wanted was someone who could appreciate the irony
of a boat burning in the middle of the ocean
She writes his name over and over again on a napkin
and orders a double
—Tony

Poetry Corner
with my head freshly shrunk
god being my lucky rabbit’s foot
no more swimming upstream
all shined up like a kennedy
cop sluggin’ drunk
wearing a big hat and smiling
lit on felony juice
time to go to work hooking empties
behind mr. lucky’s
four winos down and one to go

waiting for the day the fortified rain
comes and washes me away
all jack-assed and liver-lubed
wired to the tits and torn off the frame
wankered and zig-zagged
locked out of my mind

the mystery guest at this party
another stillborn twelve-stepper
with kamikaze eyes
involved in another drinking related
incident/accident

flexing my booze muscle
dancing on pavement pizza
jumping strays
looking for a scoop of loudmouth soup
rendered the mighty keg commander
of the 666th black-out brigade.
—Jefro Buck

Bar Time Memoir
I’ve met you before
you sat next to me in
that crowded bar
full of college kids
that resembled us
not so long ago

I remember feeling
I met you before
in some crowded
classroom that we decided
to ditch the next day
not so long ago

I remember hearing
your voice and laughter
as we spoke
of our inner moments
with the lightness
of gin in our veins

I remember seeing
the light that ignites
in your eyes
with a truth shared
while I sip from
the dirty cup

I remember smells
of smoke and dank
lingering on threads
of the night left behind
while I slip my arms
in cold familiarity

I remember the taste
of bitter sweet lips
that touched mine
not knowing what’s next
I traced my tongue
around the glass rim
of my familiar friend
—Mick Black

The Bottle
The bottle said “drink me”
so I drank and drank
until the next thing I knew
I grew

too big to go back through
mouse-sized door
then lost all mouse house
sensibility—and kicked
my size nine through
the looking glass
threw a punch at the card queen
and bit the dum-twin’s ankle

Far too big for my britches
n’eath the shroom
my bra and petticoat too
smashed the bottle
on the mouse-sized door
and grew
—Christina Continelli

The Devil Knocks
Don’t know if I’ve lied to the angels
Don’t know if I’ve lived in sin
But when the devil comes a-knockin’
I just got to let him in.

Lie down not with lions tamed
Temperance and virtue are for the vain
In gin you’ll find greater fame
For heaven lost is hell gained.
—Paco Rico

In a Bar
Like the room
ambitions are smoky
and drenched
and detached with dimension

communal consumption
pervades not thought but
rather...internal intention...
psychotic instinct
that fuels the permissible
nemesis of
contained self mutilation

true feeling twists
and seeps from a
slurring mouth

the brilliant drunk
sells his smarts
to the seductive bottle
and the sucker buys the whole batch

come here friend
I am the culmination
of brilliance since the
dawn of mankind

what is it that you do

I sell nothing for the
price of everything
take this triumphant bottle of emptiness

it and all its glories
can be yours for
the low price of all

the drunk at the bar
is a glorious glutton

I need a beer
you want one too

and then the joking words
of the befuddled idiot:

“The beers went down with such ease,
I had no choice but to hit those trees.”

intoxicated words and
movements occur frame
by frame in this
surrealistic reality
—WC Purdy

SPLENDID
Awake—
deep infection of the senses
(deeper hole of thought)
where does this alley go?
follow the vine
to the grape
to the splendid so