O friend, have you yet to meet
the unicorns in their froth-maned flock?
Hooves of onyx, fierce and fleet
and their hides pale white like marble block.
Fear them, O friend, and their gaze,
their eyes like pure-polished porcelain
that flinch not from brightest rays
or from any malign course of sin.
They look like frolicking steeds
galloping across the Springtime plains
alike to many horse breeds,
but they will suffer no mount or reins.
Suffer! To suffer, indeed!
For they bridle a man’s life instead,
as they did me, and mislead,
like a mug of witch brew to the head.
Their aspect is not equine,
but headed like babes but a year old,
and their hearts are not divine,
but unfeeling, cruel, deathly cold.
But what favor they show oft
to virgins who dare to travel far
to touch such a mane…pure…soft…
following Virgo, from star to star!
But what of virgins oft said
to be honored among these pure things?
Come, if you dare; lay your head
in their laps and see how their touch brings
a curse such as no man wants,
such a curse of loveless wanderlust
until ones memory haunts
the lonely years, one’s youth gone to rust.
After two years i return to the medium of watercolor.
Come on—let’s go bar hopping,
drink-drink-drinking, no stopping
as we careen bar to bar
in my leaden-footed car.
Shots of bourbon, vodka, rum,
drinking until kingdom come,
drunk amphibian delight
swimming till first morning light,
bleary-eyed as a bullfrog
fattened on flies, brain agog
with the sloshing swamp’s flood-tide
and the moonlit moonshine ride,
shotglasses like lily pads,
stepping stones for the mad lads
who burp karaoke songs
and stuff bills in stripper thongs.
Beer and whiskey—booze, booze, booze!
Drink as if there’s nought to lose,
webbed-hands clutching empty cans,
head dizzy as ceiling fans,
draining to dregs each bottle
and driving on, full throttle;
bloated, clammy, puking up
into your red solo cup.
Cluster ‘round a gorgeous gal,
compete with your dearest pal
for the lady long of leg
who, smiling sly, wants to peg
while you pass out on her couch
as she aims her dildo—ouch!
What now? Don’t go reneging
just ‘cuz of some frog-gigging.
When it’s raining firewater
you must be a globe trotter
and drink the weekend away,
hopping down-road, come what may.
I rarely draw or paint like I used to. The truth is that I have been so disheartened lately that I rarely am inclined. But I forced myself to draw and paint yesterday in a spare sketchbook. Most days I am writing, but it did feel good to draw and paint once again.