I

It was the rum that saved me
from imploding
in utter despair
at the horror my life
became.

Such an end
can happen to anyone
abiding in a failed universe,
whose dreams die,
whose hopes slither off
into whichever crack
is closest
leaving whatever they'd become
out to rust
in icy rain.

If you stay drunk enough though,
none of that
matters.

II

Liquid nirvana,
Roshi called it,
enlightenment
in a bottle,
medicine
for impossibly
wounded
hearts.

So, in all candor
it was the best choice
this small mind
could find.

But eventually
the rum
quit working,
goddammit,
and no matter
how much got drunk
I was always
still thirsty.

Only now
there were shakes,
puking,
a bleary gooey
nervous belly,
the staggering falling
bruised up mess
of everyday life
to go along

With my pathetic
pretending
that everything
was fine.

All of which, in turn,
became
just another
glorious
reason
to drink,

Until finally
everything
you touch
turns to shit,

And though still awake enough
maybe
to put gas in the car
or wash a t shirt
from time to time,

Nothing mattered,
because
-truth be told -
you already
fucking may as well
be dead.

III

Eventually
I put down the bottles
and left the bars,

Which seems
a stupid thing
unless you been there
yourself,

Then you know,
way beyond words,
it's not stupid
at all,
but gritty hard work.

That much
my alcoholic brain
saw all along;

Another reason
not to try,

Because for years
it seemed
there just wasn't
enough in me
for such
a difficult
endeavor.

IV

The truly hard part here
in the long run
isn't any of that,

but later
when the cool cool joy
of waking up sober day after day,
hanging out
with all your
way neato new
best friends,
and noticing again
after so many years
the light of the moon,
starts fading,

And all the rancid crap
you tried drowning,
way back when,
comes in off the bench
all rested and pissed
and ready to raise hell
again.

V

That's where the rubber
meets the road,

Because every twitch,
every habit,
every fiber of being
conspires,
when stuff gets hard enough
and dark enough,
to put me back in the cockpit

For another go
down the gauntlet
to sweet
liquid
oblivion.

Of cops,
and piss,
and puke,
and bad bad
bar room jukes;

Of hard feelings
and utter desolation,
sick twisted yearning,
and the hatred of children
left to gather
the pieces of their own
broken dreams
long after you're dead
and gone.

Of ruptured arteries,
drowning in your own blood,
and wet brain,
where even the idea
of getting sober
loses traction and
simply slides right on by
leaving no trace,
not even a slime trail,

Where those few times
when the doctors or the judges
or the husbands and wives
make you stop
for awhile
comprise shear
unimaginable
shit your pants
terror.

And mostly where
whatever other choice
but being back out
you think you got
doesn't look like hope at all,
just brainwashed,
mindless,
zombie hell

That doesn't work anyway.

VI

This is when
you learn
if the thing
you think you are
really gets it
or not.

This,
right here
right now,
on the cliff
looking down,

Where you discover
if you really want bad enough
whatever lesson,
truth, or redemption
there is
for someone
the likes of you.

And it's when
this whole new
sober deal
first gets
really
really
hard.

VII

I have finally
begun to learn
my dharma
is only true
for me.

And these words -
these thoughts -
even they
just don't quite
come together right,

but simply
at best
maybe reach
a sort of approximation
of what it is
that makes even
the least bit of sense
just for me.

So when I speak
of open hearts
and letting go,

There's just no telling
what you'll hear
and think

nor any reason
to try and make
what makes sense
to me
do so, too,
for you.

VIII

There's a series
of somehow
seemingly loud clicks
you can almost hear
in tired worn bones,,
when stuff dawns
in otherwise stubborn
rigid brains,

Where it seems
like something
really really new,
and true,
and fucking obvious
hits at depth,
changing
everything.

The first came
with the realization
that no matter what
and no matter who
and no matter when
and no matter how bad
it gets,

I just
can''t
drink.

The time when that solution worked
is long gone.

The days when a few rum and cokes
took the edge off
and gave me back
a sense of purpose
ain't never
ever coming back.

I just can't drink,
no matter what.

IX

The second click comes
a little later,
in the realization
that them not quite drowned
demons weren't so real
as to stand
beyond reproach

weren't too loud
to scare the wind

weren't too brash
to run the show,

and weren't so strong
that they'd really
do me in.

After all,
whatever thoughts
my brain secretes

are just ideas
worn bare,
perceptions
imperfectly cast,
colored lenses
turned to habit
and dug to ruts

so long ago
they speak
the voice of fathers
to ears
of a children

X

And the third click,
still coming,
like everything else,

Is simply how the mind's ooze
isn't true or real enough
to require
ultimate submission
nor conquering.

I am not
my brain's bitch,

nor it's oppressor.

Neither running from
nor to,
these things that happen
in conscious thought,
become just another color
to see,
or sound to hear,
or smell and taste
to appreciate,
before the next one hits
and your day moves on.

XI

And in it all,
it's as if
there's layers
to this thing
called self,

So that
whittling and grinding,
first about drink,
and then, perhaps, fear
or loss,
or pain,

I reach the place
whereupon once
was hoped
to be a pure whole me,

Only to find
more wood and stone
to sculpt away.

And where then
in time
comes the clarity,
felt deep deep down,

How all these alleged truths
were far less
poured concrete
and far more,
steel bars,

Sealed and locked
way beyond when
the prisoners
were to be paroled.

XII

All we ever do
is walk this path,

From when they pull us
out our mothers' bellies,
and not finished yet.

No end in sight,
no rest,
no turning back.

No arriving
no departing
no beginning
no completion.

Just breathing
and doing
and thinking
and feeling,

No more
and likewise
never
any less.

That's what they are,
these lives
we live,

Whether sober,
drunk,
awake,
or asleep,

Deluded by warm fuzzy blankets,
the babbling rhetoric of scripture,
the sexy smart rich lure of tomorrow's product,

Or wakened
to the truths
beyond words
our hearts
know best.

How could
it be
any different?

XIII

I've done my life many ways,
usually with
the conscious thought
that this
- whichever this
was it -
could finally lay
some sort
of lasting peace
upon a sad soul.

And in that time,
never once saw
such notions
as anything other
than obvious,
anything other than
what to do,
anything other
than who I was.

But letting rest
the fool's errand
snipe hunt
of finding some missing ingredient,

The lid opens
on far more truth
than even Roshis
know.

XIV

Because,
if I am not
a weak small child
than I need not
defend a boy.

If I need not
defend a boy,
than I may set
my armor down.

And in that place
where walls and moats
once stretched across these fields,

tress and grasses
grow again
beneath the shining moon.