Holiday Hard Times

on whiskey sometimes, I channel some black
poet who’s a big fan of the jimi — hendrix
for all you purplefied pedestrians — tonight
he’s high again and lovin’ life and lovin’ his
own little stretch of river under mcluggage
up toward the anus of illinois, pe-o-ri-a!
he ain’t had a meal in seven days and six nights
but for a dram of brandy some gen’rous
soul gave him sunday night in the season’s spirit
and something akin to human decency—
compassion ain’t too hard to come by ‘mongst
the shitpoor street-lickin masses these days,
and TeeCee ain’t no ‘ception to the rule
o’ dog-eat-dog and beggar kings give no orders.

David M Pitchford
14 Dec 2011

Back in – What – ’97?

late last thursday kendra and me down at
yella’s had a lovely conversation
over whiskeys — eartha kitt on the juke—
and she bought a round and next we danced to
old jackson browne and a few others before
elvis costello came on and there’s just
no dancing to that elvis, and so we
called it a night and she drove us up to
doc’s out on one-twenty-three, we picked up
a bottle of chivas and she drove back
to her place . . . the sun shone in her window
and brought me to sometime around mid-morning
to find her passed out in prayerful pose
before the porcelain altar all saintlike.

David M Pitchford
15 Nov 2011

That Night in July

there was a night that summer so hot the wind
refused to blow in and humidity
pooled without mercy everywhere, sticking
to our skin like sin to our permanent
record and other such fearful fables  .  .  .
she and I found ourselves down by the pool,
but not a soul was swimming, we were drunk
only slightly, and her tongue on mine was
more cloying than the taste of cheap whiskey
drunk in good company, but then she pulled
away to sing, and her voice cooled the night
like nothing else might; I jumped into the pool,
inviting her in, and we sung every
song we knew until the cops came to break us up.

David M Pitchford
2 Nov 2011

War Stories #79

without cindy here day in and day out,
I don’t know     .      .     .      but without the program, I
sure as hell wouldn’t be around to share
these stories of courage without strength, these
forlorn tales of those caught under the bus,
run over in life’s sideway paths lost be-
tween the cracks     .     .     .      without this hope, without
wisdom shared and bullets bitten within
fellowship, how could I hope to arti-
culate these dramas faced and unfaced drunk
sober and drunk again, now sober to
remain, twelve steps out of hell and walking
hand-in-hand with the unlikely love of my life,
my once and forever partner, cindy.

David M Pitchford
27 Oct 2011            *final of this project to be posted

War Stories #56

filthy. living in refuse. abandoned
dilapidated shack in nowhere’s backyard,
roaches and lice feasting my flesh, ants, mice
gnaw my skin, leave their bloody signatures . . .
recovery dreams can be worse than fugue
visions. and then comes the usage dreams filled
with unwanted drink and intoxication,
all good intentions consumed along with
perdition’s road itself. come morning light
and stark awakening, these dreams like mists
part beneath the sun’s glaring truth—some words
said in prayer, thanks for another day,
chases the dreams back to their dark repose;
one day won’t do to rebuildrome, I suppose.

David M Pitchford
25 Oct 2011

War Stories #47

maybe two weeks after donna’s funeral,
julie looked me up, dragged me from a meeting
to share some bad news. she had contracted
h.i.v. from somewhere, unsure whether
from a john or from a dirty needle.
either way, it was not to worry me,
as I had never shared her or her spikes.
but then she had to tell me that somehow
that gang from saint louis had gotten our
names and were on the hunt for all of us.
a banger I knew from meetings confirmed
this, and said I could buy my way free of it
for the right price . . . that’s what got me downstate,
and, by God, somehow it’s all for the good.

David M Pitchford
24 Oct 2011

War Stories #19

god knows what georgy was doing on top
of absinthe that night. all jacked up he got
it in his head that he was a turnip
or some such shit, and took a wire brush to
himself. billy told him a paring knife
might work better, and then we all watched dazed
and mortified while georgy started cutting
chunks out of his own torso with a dull
hunk of steel from the kitchen. back then,
roxanne, a trauma nurse, was hanging out
with us and helping find us fixes—she
clocked him with the absinthe bottle, strapped him
down and stitched him up with fishing line well
enough to keep us from repercussions.

David M Pitchford
23 Oct 2011

War Stories #17

where in the world is our place? billy asked
me once. folks like us, the ones run over
by life and this curious world, where do
we fit in? I recall shoving a mescal
bottle at him and telling him to drink
from the teat of earthen kindness, just to
shut him up. nothing like deep water to
kill a good buzz. but then, sometimes questions
like that—under the right influence, or
perhaps the wrong—they pull you in like some
addiction centered in the mind itself,
that’s a drug you can’t buy on any street.
hasn’t stopped me looking at any rate,
always this search for island of misfits . . .

David M Pitchford
22 Oct 2011