Spirit without Alcohol

I never…

I never heard the words said
to me in earnest tones:

This is my first time, too.

Enhancing brain cells, not killing
them was never in my mind,
mine letting in too many things,
the filter of Mom or Dad, Christianity
faulty and clogged, I had to replace
it at twenty-two when cornered in
A.A. I had to tell the truth.

I never gave up in all those hospitals,
one checking me in for “Self-doubt,”
I wrote it down and learned they
were not my friends, those paid a
lot of money to with me time spend.

I wrote Longfellow on the walls,
perhaps the first life coach.

I never saw certain friends again,
but hope to see them after fences
mend, the magic of the rhyme
ahead of me, games long and
heading toward darkness without
lights, but I charge on, charge on,
the game not over,

It’s where you finish not where you
start that will determine whether peace
of mind is mine and heaven revin’.

I never knew a bloke to choose the
baggage to tote down or up life’s golden
mazy lane. We are dealt cards to sort
out loud, some gifts we keep close
to the vest to make sure it’s safe to
share, we’re at our best.

We look left and right as the poet says,
standing up—

This is exciting, this sober life!!

One day at a time was all we ever
had. We never lived in others,
awareness is all, acceptance second
base, third to act and home the
dream fulfilled, the gay-meaning-
happy at-bat leaving you content
as you fade saying thanks before
the eyes close at night.

“To overcome,” is never the pair
of words you’d consider while adapting
with bad habits, surviving.

Then you are alone and must overcome
the bad habits you needed to be
safe years ago. Let go, rise up!!

Spirit without alcohol, the mall
with the girlfriend you never had…

Think on, think deep: God help
me be patient as I wake, to go
softly back to mend, advance, love
and never be mad

Their New Year

When is it safe to bloom?
You look around, the pink of day
on the horizon in the east, friends
locked in the same jail confer,
our hopelessness not as uniform
as our clothes, day to day going
to school, acting like John Stuart Mill—
all dog days, bark and shrill,
the dream of easy riches, oh what
a thrill.

And meanwhile the jacarandas bloom
in June or May, any time the sun
with rain confers its revolution, yellow
flowers springing up where they had sprung
the year before—

Survivors to their own new year’s party.

Sopping wet and stoned I sleep from mine
to get up late, drop in when it’s safe,
the song buzzing in my ear, not
knowing if it was cool enough for me
to actually be here.

We must know it’s safe!! We look to
left and look to right, the blessed planted
in those perfect zones, their dreams nurtured,
it’s okay to say “I love you,” no snickers
and sarcazo, as the Greek say—tearing flesh
a sport, a game.

To really care, to love another. The grand
purpose, above God and man and words
and John Stuart Mill:

He and many achieve despite cold
pursuit of achievement. Charles Dickens’
Mr. Dick shaking hands, hand after hand,
warmth and caring trumping towers of
fact and overbearing.

The zig-zag between Mom and theory,
what we are and what we leave behind,
legacy from luck we must rid ourselves of
must, and do the one thing we love.