Coors in a Can
He would slice Velveeta cheese
real thick.
He would slice an onion
even thicker.
Putting them together,
taking a bite
the moisture of the onion
sent flavor into the air.
A few moments of chewing
everything mixed
was washed down
with a can of Coors beer.
Coors in a can
was his monster
and his monitor.
A road trip or a drive
was not twenty miles away,
it was a three
or four-beer drive.
These were his treats.
His vice,
was the Winston cigarette
that always dangled
from his mouth.
With a black felt Stetson
cowboy hat,
Tony Lama boots
and in the summer,
Bermuda shorts.
He was one of the grandest men
I have ever known.
Things changed
when he started pissing himself.
He could not control
what the disease,
that was attacking him from inside,
was doing.
He sliced some Velveeta cheese
real thick.
He sliced an onion
even thicker.
Putting them together,
taking a bite,
the moisture of the onion
sent flavor into the air.
A few moments of chewing
then washed down
with Coors in a can.
He took his hat off
and for the first time
laid it down
brim first.
He struck a wooden match
and put it to the end of the Winston
dangling from his mouth
and filled his lungs with smoke.
One last drink
that emptied
the Coors in a can.
Then did something
he never thought possible.
He placed the muzzle
of his Colt revolver
deep into his mouth.
I’m Missing
I’m missing
the bump-start breakfast of
think sliced bacon,
caffeine,
nicotine
and Jack Daniels in my coffee,
hot and without cream.
I’m missing
the long wide-open days of
cross tops,
windowpane,
cheep grass,
even cheaper beer
and the road trips isolated from all that is.
I’m missing
the carefree evenings
that turned into dawn,
tequila shots,
loud music that made you dance,
the party girls that lived to live,
and the ones that had misplaced
the word known as “No.”
I’m missing
the understanding
that it has came to this,
stiffness and pain when I stand up,
a constant buzzing in my ears,
weight that seems to be here to stay,
and hair that won’t.
Rice and fruit in the mornings,
salads at night
and cheap wine from a black box,
because it’s just easier.
I’m missing
the mishaps and adventures rousing
the reason why I write
this constant stream of thoughts
that tumble from my existence,
the ones that are ruled by none,
while wondering if someday
Perhaps you’ll miss them too.
