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The Blog Bog
The Mag Rack
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Winter Solstice, 2014
Nothing wrong with a little tobacco
if used properly,
the lie I tell myself.
A touch of the poppy
now and then.
Red wine is good for you.
Have a glass with your evening meal.
Some people can do that:
the fit and trim,
sophisticated connoisseurs.
What a world of difference
between them and the winos
beneath the overpass
who prefer fortified wine
for the alcohol content.
And where do I fit into the equation,
with my bottle of Russian Imperial Stout
and fifth of tequila?
I won't stop at one beer,
that's for sure.
I won't take two Vicodin
and call it a night.
I'm floating somewhere between
the junkie, the wino and the well published poet.
That's my reality tonight,
with a lower right molar
that probably needs a root canal,
my twenty year
addiction to opiates.
The stars are out on this clear night
as I smoke my handrolled American Spirit cigarette.
The wino, the connoisseur and I
all looking for the good life.
Andy Roberts
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What I Learned From Santa
Vincente Santo, aka Santa, was drunk
every time I saw him.
Drove a blue MG, had just quit his job
at the post office and was blowing his retirement fund.
He was generous with his dope and beer,
rented a second floor apartment where we hung out
and got loaded.
I liked Santa's Zappa albums.
He played Weasels Ripped My Flesh,
Hot Rats, and The Grand Wazoo.
But we were wasting time
in a way that bugged me somehow.
I couldn't put my finger on it,
it just seemed like
we weren't going anywhere.
That's how I spent a lot of my time in the 70's -
wasting it and mildly concerned.
Patterns had already developed.
Santa, I'm sure, is dead,
along with most of my friends.
But I'm still here,
sharing stories others seem to enjoy.
My life and times. The secret,
Santa said, lies in delivery.
Andy Roberts 10/15__
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For All The Blanche DuBois's
The subject was cruelty but I didn't know it
then. I was more concerned with escape,
always on the lookout for a new place to be born.
My father was a traveler too.
If comfort's all you want out of life,
he warned, it's all you'll get.
I want love, I was too ashamed to tell him. Acceptance.
Desire is the source of all sorrow, the Buddhists say.
What to make of that?
Makes me think of the two words
Bukowski has etched into his tombstone:
"Don't Try."
I like to think I make hard times look easy
by avoiding the subject. But some things remind me:
flashing blue and whites in the rearview,
tomcat with a wounded bird, a nerd on dodgeball day.
Wine and cigars lend a temporary peace, a helping hand.
And sometimes odd mercy, a grace note,
the kindness of strangers, even the ones I know.
Andy Roberts 10/15__
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