Old Habits

. . . old habits die hard

they crawled across his bare shoulders  and throat     and into his beard like a hairy spider

hes bound tightly

he has to endure it

he hears more

than ever he thought he would

as the words begin

he tries to humour himself:

                                           nuns are tough to kill off  so gawddamn selfless   hard to find 

anything of self to inflict lethally

                                        it fails

Old Habits are conspiratorial   and liars

                                                                                                                 they dont ever die

we die first and take them over the edge into our graves kickin and screamin

those handfuls of dirt mourners toss in after us graveside choke their miserable voices in 

their agape throats

Faulkner  -  as usual  -  said it best:  “The past is not dead, it is not even past.”

and by his thoughtful reckoning

relaxed  stroking his beard

running the backs of his knuckles on its stiff whiskers

the line was either the Reason

                                                  or the Excuse

                                                                          or each a smokescreen to hide behind   

obscuring the true answer

why do you drink somuch

why are you sucha bitch

why are you sobent on killing yourself

why are you a prick

they eat the lines like a canapés or hors d'oeuvres  a martini olive off a toothpick or mojito

strands of muddled mint

enough to fill their mouths  and chew

impolite to speak around

but not enough for sustenance

eyes blink or eyes are averted and the Moment is lost in ones ears

                                                                                                            old habits die hard

and dont hold an echo  sound like a flat coin dully fallen in soft earth

                                                                                                                    reprieved            

the fictions will continue until the next brief intersection

why do you have to be like that . . .

1124,  Wednesday,  14  8. 13

Security

locks

and keys

and tumbler combinations

passwords entered

or as whispered through Judas ports in bolted speakeasy doors to get past thuggish gatekeepers

real beauts sporting scarred eyebrows busted noses cauliflower ears and missing teeth
pusses
         only their mothers could love
mebbe

such are the securities against breaches
                                           when in reality a breach is a very natural thing

everything erodes and the tighter the thing is wound or bound Stressed
                                                                              eventually plays its evenhand  surly

or a shortcut price is asked
or suggested to the thug watching at the door
                                                 and Paid    

adios amigo and mebbe someday Ill see ya in a dark alley
                                                              if you can find me
and if you do well have a day of reckoning
                                              but in the meantime

your fuckin lifes a shambles and your scratchin to hold your straw stuffing together to keep from slipping deeper or coming apart at your mickey mouse seams
                                              while the Whole Thing begs to come apart and drop useless in the dirt

Nothing likes to be kept alive artificially
                                          nudged and nudged
                                                                 sputtering Aware
exquisitely Conscious of being eaten alive

It looks desperately for the kindness of someone a fuckin Saint  an Intimate to stop their pain
End

their horribly deliberate

pathetic

painful death

every spastic dribble of It began with the artifice of Security

                                                                  ever a bloated dead thing itself

1756,  Tuesday,  13  8. 13

there were old men on this train

who he watched carefully

he watched them

to betray themselves

war is fabricated

and helped sold by veterans

old men

who may have served

the old men on this train wandered its bouncing aisle

lustily grabbing handholds on chairbacks

lusty

          grabbing life by its hair 

taking ever more and more

taking

          and taking giving nothing in return

thats what they feel they are owed

                                                           this selfish lot feels owed                                      

fifty years later

theyre entitled  

because they survived

perhaps

though they may not have fought   it is assumed they did

they let horrors be assumed

they cant talk about it

they cant

because theres nothing to be told

they let their rheumy eyes speak

practised

bloodshot

they watched a war

long ago

death voyeurs   

not operatives   or death dealers

maybe theyre frauds

fakes drawing selfish breaths

that rarely catch in their throats

then  a sudden revealing pant

which passes too quick

their selfish breaths

consuming more and more

sucking

and quaffing

and stealing

Twosday, approaching Santa Barbara,  11  11. 08