Kentucky Woman

it’s the joy of expression, and the joy
in your expression.     light of easy mirth
written in dimples and mischievous eyes.
the play of words,     yours roll on my tongue like
kisses,     some sweet others rough with passion.
the shape and pucker of your lips become
my dreamscape’s major constellation,     and I
travel cosmos rocketed by wings of light
to meet you within the moon’s secret orchard
where together we spread feasts of novelty,
delights of dawning familiarity
and stroll along the breathless shore,     springing
acrobatic in lunar dance beside
the sea of tranquility, pointing earthward.

David M Pitchford
30 Oct 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 #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

Campfire Party

late that night someone called the cops, twenty
grown adults ran for the wood just behind
the house, ten yards from the bonfire, and I
was the one left to answer to deputy
don about the noise—ozzie was on his
crazy train when the cruiser cruised up, but
bon jovi had been the impetus for
the call—and all I could say was kegger!

once it was all sorted out, we turned down
kelly’s car stereo and I collected
all the clutter, though we were tapping beer—
mick ultra—into actual glasses
to be green and responsible, just a score
of adults past the bar scene having fun.

David M Pitchford
21 Oct 2011

Accountable

a man needs someone to know him, my shrink
tells me. in business, it’s sometimes who you
know, but in life it’s always a matter
of who knows you. there’s something hardwired there
that makes us crave, need even, that contact,
that contract if you will, of knowing and
being known—an accountability—
in a social sense whether or not in
a moral or ethical sense. a need
for continuity . . . without that link,
we flirt with the dissolution of per-
sonality, of personhood; and that
becomes the short track to insanity,
not the fun kind, but of the sociopath.

David M Pitchford
14 Oct 2011

Green Fairy Fugue

that night was full of absinthe and strange times
convoluted within a mind looping
around itself, never to be recalled
directly but by forensics and brave
anecdotes shared by some who testify
to its lunatic adventures. inside,
you smoked your herbal chemistry, laughing
stonily over everything, while we
outside soaked sugar cube sacrifices
and poured icy water into emerald
creating clouds of inebriation . . .
then the stripping of clothes, the howl and dance
of the bacchanal, virgin moon bleeding,
somehow become my bride by morning’s light.

David M Pitchford
10 oct 2011

Sherbet Serenade

if I could wipe those tears from your eyes,
my friend, I would sing a song sublime
to heal your tortured heart and soothe that
tender spirit you hide beneath armor
thick with savage words and stabbing glares
off I will whisk you, to magic new
dimension; smile then next for you and
stand beside, lead you or follow
as you will through realms of light or dark
or marshmallow dreams in rainbow carols
before the Christmas feast is over
and the thief of hearts hangs in his cage
beheaded bleeding strawberry syrup
for your pancakes and we sip Brut Moet
from crystal slippers I bought you for the ball.

David M Pitchford
18 Sept 2011