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January 25, 2006
the dimly lit
christmas lights el blanco
highlight the smudges and smears
without and within
the drinking vessels that hang
reverse negative
from the lattice work over the bar
the armrest is cracked and bulging
leaving patches of artwork
on my forearms
and the barman is devouring cigarettes
like the desert takes rain
black denim asphalt
a sable mane
whips around between the tatters of light
keeping the high definition
low
she brings us incentives
to remain
on plates and heels
to each
their own
I with my liters of beer
and comtemplative eye
the wife with her vodka bottle
and elbow to my ribs
we meet the family
that lives behind the partition
beyond the dressed tables
and arm wrestle each other
for kicks and kudos
the hits from the 80's
that you'd like to forget
keep working the repeat button
as we speak between broken language barriers
and pace the disco ball
with the clanging of salutations
the cd tray
finally finds a more suitable barritone
and I engage the golden blowpipe
in spite of a few flakes of rust,
a few dropouts in the high season
I managed to carry the tunes
to a pleasent crescendo
near the bottom of my glass
three liters into it
and the wife now on rum
we biodegrade the dialog
as we go
giving notice
that we shall return
in the morrow
once our train comes
full swing
be it noon
or night
just leave the door ajar
and the barker
barking
D.
Posted by Drexler at 01:56 PM
January 22, 2006
a bottle of red
I do not believe in new years resolutions
but I have decided to set a goal
or something like that
One day
in Pisco, Peru
I spilled my guts
38 times
because of something mysterious
in the lettuce
I also purchased a bottle
of 2003 Casillero del Diablo
Cabernet Savignon
and am not going to drink it
until Dec 31st 2006
I will carry it all over this god damn rock
and not fuck with the cork
If I can do this
then I deserve to drink it on New Years eve
A great challenge for a drunk like myself
and something to look forward to in a time
when I have no idea hwere I will be
or how I will be doing it
that is all
for now
D.
Posted by Drexler at 03:23 PM
January 19, 2006
riding the ormena expressed
it certainly seems
that brains cells dont grow on trees
in a city that has
crossed eyes
and four toes on each hand
level my head on a paint peel
watch the static grow
and flush away the sunspots
before they carry me to rest
beneath the empty fountain
grubby hands with empty bottles
link park benches to roadmaps
pond scum crawls out of the lake
and leads tours into the sea
picking pockets like spots
the candelabro lies poolside
something made in china
carved its all together
dime store history
is all they have to go on
rain does not electrify
the rubber soul jaywalkers
we need cool white wine
and a little sonic friction
to get the job done
they turned the saints into door knockers
and put all the authors in the inferno
just my wet clothes
and beaten shoes
know
who tells the story better
D.
Posted by Drexler at 02:26 PM
January 09, 2006
The 9:22 to Puno
thread by thread
the coagulated pocket
dissolves
its twenty minutes past the 9:22
of which the express to Puno
was to have arrived
the undercarriage of the glowering sky
is merciless
sheets of hail striking the platform
with an obvious contempt
or perhaps hatred
for anything or one
above or below
finally
in the distance
a pulsation of light
slurred by the storm
grows
from the dim of a torch
into the face of a cyclops
and the trailing body
that is to carry me
east
the station shudders
beneath the force of its arrival
porters move about like army ants
shuffling the luggage of confused arrivals
into the safety of the depot
as I hurry myself on and in
to the shelter of the third carriage
down the littered aisle
until I find my torn and withered seat
and stow my suitcase
on the chainlink
overhead
finally seated
and yet still waiting
I loosen my tie and adjust myself
to the discomfort of the electric heating
pouring out of the ducts like halitosis
I scan the car
and realize
that there are very few of us
going the distance
tonight
across the aisle
facing opposite me
are the ruins of a man in a tattered grey suit
the suit being of a style made popular
during the days of a youth
that was not my own
I register his chin
lying idle against his sunken breast
the angle exposing a barren crown
garnished with liverspots
dully illuminated by the crude lights overhead
a thin rail of drool
runs from the underscore of his cracked lip
onto the pinstriped face of his blazer
his exhausted hands
rest
one on each knee
a widowers ring
in the appropriate place
turning away
and to the window beside me
I find nothing
other than the brutal reflection
of my own self
asking a question
I leave to no one
outside
the onslaught continues
hail pelting the steel chasis of the car
like pebbles on aluminum
the moon has given up
the sky
and I draw from my flask
the only comfort to be found
on this night
D.
Posted by Drexler at 09:13 AM
January 07, 2006
bedstead
some people break bread
but I
have broken a bed
again
not in the act of galloping
atop some trollop
but simply with my bedside manner
in the early hours of a fog
reciting a phrase of genuis
to my timber eyed beauty
from one of our great latin american novelists
when the sudden cry of the ply
against the protest from the tiles beneath
droopped my ass a few inches closer
to the earth
shocked into action
we rise
assess the fallen parts
the assortment of dust and sand
and place blame
with the carpenter
for yet another episode
of embarrassment
it is not the first time for everything
but the third or fourth on this journey
frame giving way to floor
once or twice
the tweaking of joints
from the action of the old ceremony
was the cause
but my innocence
in another case or so
is known only to myself
and the female party present
the proprietors of the affected establishments
never again greet you
with the same kindness of eyes
and it is usually best
to move your belonging
down and out
whatever way leads elsewhere
on to stronger frames
and softer minded sheets
or impotent nights of rum
and the sunset siesta
I leave a different type of notch
than others
when it comes to my proficiency
in the sack
D.
Posted by Drexler at 12:47 PM
overheard
"speak when spoken of"
Ian Curtis
"I could teach you to surf on a waterbed"
overheard in Thailand
"What is cowardice in the young is wisdom in the old, but all the same one can be ashamed of wisdom"
excerpt from a short by Graham Greene
"She could not conceive of life without him because of the innocence of his heart and the caliber of his member"
excerpt from a short by Gabriel Marquez
Posted by Drexler at 12:39 PM
cornucopia
scissoring the bronze pillars
with an arrangement of opium and lavender
tactical fittings of scar tissue and succulents
lay nestled inside a valley,
beneath the cardinal plumes of an acacia
we spill wine from the cornucopia
onto virgin sheets
tender in the grass
the delicate harvesting of chords
intertwined within mahogany shadowboxes
render the sea
obsolete
and tears from candles build fortresses
that jostle sand from the altar
outside
they wane
softening the blow
lingering on the crest
arresting all progress
of a moment
outside of time
D.
Posted by Drexler at 12:01 PM
January 05, 2006
living it
For the truth is that I already know as much about my fate as I need to know. The day will come when I will die. So the only matter of consequence before me is what I will do with my allotted time. I can remain on shore, paralyzed with fear, or I can raise my sails and dip and soar in the breeze.
Richard Bode
Posted by Drexler at 12:21 PM
January 04, 2006
La Garua
someone keeps moving the hands
of the clock on the patio
still, they don't appear to be
going anywhere
and in the distance I can hear
a bird of prey
menacing the airwaves with a hunger
that I cannot relay
in words
or relate to
in rhyme
It seems everyone thinks
my songs
are like a razor at my throat
but sorrow and I
have a great many ways
of deluding
one another
to achieve our own
seperate ends
a division of the songwriter
from the singer
achieves a partnership
la garua
drudges along the waterfront
while children stash seaweed
in potato sacks
and bunnies darken their hides
in observatude
the clamor of the ice cream bell
spilling down from the promenade
and frisbees
kicking sand onto my sarong
these things are reality
all the dark corners,
the film noirs
that I show
to my guests
both near and far
are just a way of sustaining
the gap
Posted by Drexler at 11:09 AM
January 02, 2006
the tin machine
of wicker and tin
we boast
laying down the heavy hand
an iron fist
on a podium of tinfoil
gazes drift like ashes
as the undetrow pulls from the bottle
the remains of civility
draw back the heavy lilac curtains
reveal a simple and crippled machine
no whitewashing can cover the corrosion
tha flakes to the touch
no golden breastplate can conceal the ruins
tha lie beneath the facade
mist and fog are the seasons
over which I preside
groping for nothing, pleading with no one
in the silence that hangs; forsaken
sunspots and chasers
fill the areas abandoned by sensation
comedy is as simple as an injection
nothing comes easier
or is more welcome
than a good show
given for those who know nothing
and have no interest in understanding
the plateaus of pain
that command this shadow
I cast
over myself
Posted by Drexler at 10:40 AM