Welcome to Fight Club

The first rule of depression is: you do not talk about depression.

I am Mike’s courage.

Exhausted.

Useless as a cigarette tossed from a car window,

spent like tips to a bartender you know you‘ll never sleep with.

I am a promise with an expiration date,

secreted inside a glass box with a label that reads,

“Break in case of emergency only”.

The second rule of depression is: you do not talk about depression.

I am the first apartment after the divorce.

I am the cheapest 12-pack in the cooler.

I am fury with no focal point,

blind as a tornado yet somehow able to destroy the only structure for miles around.

I am shattered windows,

splintered lumber,

stained mattress,

cracked bathtub,

photos torn from an album

that lose their meaning out of context.

Third rule of depression: if someone yells “stop!”, goes limp, or taps out, the fight is over.

I am Mike’s voice.

Choked in a throat too constricted for sound,

forced to turn back,

to retreat.

Old habits die hard.

I am Mike’s defeat.

Born without a name,

raised to stay away from trouble

or pay the consequences.

Shut your mouth.

Stop crying

or I’ll give you something to really cry about.

I tapped out bent over his knee.

I went limp as the belt swung behind his head.

Fourth rule: only two guys to a fight.

I shadow box with the lights off.

I take potshots at the coward in the mirror.

I’ve studied the film and know my opponent’s weaknesses.

You were born a bastard.

Nobody wanted you.

You were taught that love is conditional

and you don’t meet the requirements.

You will never be good enough.

I punch below the belt.

Fifth rule: one fight at a time.

I am Mike’s broken alarm clock.

I cannot get out of bed.

The gravity’s cranked up in my mattress,

it’s set to you’re not going anywhere, pal.

I struggle to breathe.

The air slowly fills my lungs like wet concrete.

I crack my eyelids and the light coming through the blinds

drills into my skull,

pounding like a jackhammer in a dumpster.

I slam my eyes shut and pull a sweat-soaked blanket over my head

but the pounding continues.

Why the fuck did I have to wake up?

Sixth Rule: the fights are bare knuckle. No shirt, no shoes, no weapons.

No place to hide,

no corner dark enough,

no music loud enough,

no kiss sweet enough,

no bottle deep enough.

I am Mike’s wit’s end.

Seventh Rule: fights will go on as long as they have to.

The sky belches a black-lunged cough,

over a battlefield that smolders in the choked light of dusk.

A tattered flag hangs limply from a splintered pole,

bent toward the ground as if in prayer.

I am Mike’s dramatic flair.

Communication lines have been down for weeks,

there‘s no way to call for help.

Fuel reserves are all but depleted.

I don’t know if I can stand

for one last stand.

This has to end or I will end it.

I am Mike’s fatalism.

The eighth and final rule: if this is your first time, you have to fight.

I’ve been in this fight for as long as I can remember.

I’ve been losing this fight for as long as I can remember.

I don’t know how much longer I can do this

but I know I’m tired of getting knocked down,

tired of eating canvas,

tired of tapping out.

All the split lips and loose teeth,

the cracked ribs and bloody knuckles,

the kidney punches and knees to the groin–

I’ve taken them,

and I’ve realized something.

Bruises fade,

bones mend,

scabs give way to scars and scars are reminders

that I may have been beaten

but I haven’t been beaten.

I am Mike’s resolve.

mdh    1/29/2011

bad example

she says shes embarassed
to talk to me
when shes been drinking

she says
Im a bad example
because not drinking
is so easy for me

she says I just dont get it

I know shes young
and that she dont know
what she dont know
but to say that
I dont get it

she has no idea

theres a special section of hell
waiting for me

Ive done things on the bottle
that neither God nor man
can forgive
and someday Ive got to pay that debt

and though I know
theres no escaping
those eternal flames

I have no desire
to return to the hell on earth
I created for myself
back in my drinking days

Im trying to do right

I thought getting sober
and staying sober
might help someone else too

maybe show them
it aint easy
but
it aint impossible either

do I hide my struggle too well
should I fall off
just to prove Im no better
than she is

maybe I should drop by her place
drink all her booze
piss on her floor
then go wrap her car around something

will that make me the real deal

will it tarnish
this tin halo
she imagines
on my head

I know
that Im still more sinner than saint
but
Im gonna keep trying to do right
for as long as I can

cause I know
these wax wings
wont last long
where Im going

little girl lost

G
perforated his skull with a bullet
and cured himself once and for all
of his addiction to alcohol

that was three years ago
and his daughter
has been drinking about it ever since

I saw her today
and couldn’t help but think of her old man

my mind always returns to that tile floor
in the basement of their old house
where I used his mop
his towels
to wipe up
his blood
his brains

I had to make sure
his daughter didn’t see
what her old man left behind
or more precisely
what was left of her old man

this morning she told me
she’d been sober the last four months
the alcohol on her breath
revealed the truth before she did

“I’m screaming for help
it’s not four months
but four hours”
she finally confessed

then she began to cry
and between sobs
she said she wants to be done
but that I shouldn’t worry

she just wants to be done

I told her I’d help her
but in the mean time
she needed to find a meeting
she agreed and said she’d look

that was nine hours ago

I don’t know if she found one or not
I can’t find her

now I’m lost

sky cafe

i look to the sky
there is a mass of clouds
clustered they have all become one.

some white, some dark some medium in tone,
they assimilate to form one large group
all touching; clashing; meshing into one another.

off in the distance is a single cloud
glistening by the light of the sun
it stands alone
fluffy and almost perfect
it sails thru the sky
an inanimate object
but it seems content

as i look upon the crowds
it is a mass
some light; some dark; some medium in tone
they assimilate to form one large group
all touching; clashing; meshing into one another.

off in the distance is a single person
glistening by the light of the night
they stand alone
almost perfect
passing in the darkness
but seeming content

debrisnyc

down like chuck brown

you pull back to throw
another promise at me
and tell me to go deep

I cut and run
my usual pattern
down and out
but I feel good about this one

I go the distance
hope churning, desire burning
and I raise my hands
to catch your oath

as I look back over my shoulder
I see your grip loosen
and watch your empty words
slip through your fingers

you’ve fumbled once again

I trip over my disappointment at full stride
legs, arms, expectations akimbo
and tumble heart first
into another lie

I’m down like chuck brown
and you, my Lucy
strut off the field with a smirk that says
you’ll be back

and I lay there
sucking air
swearing that the next time
you lob a promise at me

I’m gonna cut and run

we trembled

 

and we came face to face

with those who prior to that moment

had no faces

and we heard stories

that had waited a lifetime

for an audience

and we trembled

and we wept

and we were human once again

mdh

soho – south of houston

soho -

glamourous
beautiful
things you can not touch

the people are as plastic
as what they use for payment

their existence is minimal
as their minds eyes
have been blinded
by toys of the rich
which mean nothing
to anyone

ahhh the splendor
as the register rings
but they are rotting inside
from their punative ways

narrow streets
narrow shoes
narrow shops
narrow people
narrow minds
they all collide
like a train wreck

wonderful soho
beauty and art
whimsical
people
who never belonged there

debrisnyc