Tag Archives: new mexico


We drove by the pueblos
Arid masters of the canyon wall
This small niche of America
Tucked in pockets of stone

Their life carved out
Of leathered, weathered secrets
And the very nation’s bone
And us upon four wheels

Chiseling their existence
Their notion of a soul
From our time machine’s advantage
With a camera in my phone.

Coal Town Canary

I heard
This story
About a girl
Sings in the back of a bar
And bets on the race track
Coal town, near Albuquerque

Heard the town mine is kaput
She’s gonna blow the whistle
On the whole thing
Horse race fixin’
Price fixin’
City blocks
Bought up
By the

All of it
If she don’t
Get her share

The boss slides up
To her barstool
Looks at her
Tells her it’s time
Get on stage, it’s time
Unbunch that skirt
She’s gonna be a
Good girl tonight
Gonna be a princess
Won’t have to wait
Like last time
Won’t have to wait
For her paycheck
Times are tough
You know, sweetheart
Her whole face tight
As she scans the crowd
For his toothy grin

Virginia smoothed the handprint
Off her ruffled yellow dress
And smiled
Nah, she’d be good
She just needed five in the john
Kick the dust off her boots
Then she’d be right as rain

After all, not a lot of guys
Hitch their wagon up
With used cars, you know
She was lucky
He bought the story

About to be a dad
And all, gosh
He better
Buy their ticket
Outta here

Better buy the whole
Song and dance
In case that baby
Don’t show

And outside the door
You could hear her voice
Clear as a bell
Singing back
’bout what her mama said
She said

Don’t wait for candles
To wish 

Don’t wait for rain
To clean up
Don’t wait for coal to turn
To diamonds
Don’t wait for the stars to come out at night
To shine  

Love Letter to My Liver

I  woke up on a stripped college dorm mattress sometime after ten. Something smelled like vomit. I quickly realized it was me. Naked and bleeding slightly, I squinted hard in the sunlight pouring over me like cheap Canadian whiskey.

Is that what I drank?

I was a gas tank last night, match-ready and full of potential. I was far from sober and somewhere around enlightened, or at the very least contented. Somewhere between drinks, or quite possibly, that girl’s legs, I found something wonderful. Although, I’m pretty sure I lost it along with my sunglasses.

Why I was wearing them in the dark is beyond me.

A black guy with a name I can’t pronounce asked me what I wanted to mix my drink with. I responded by doing my best impression of John Belushi. Southern Comfort is a poor substitute for Jack Daniel’s. It’s a little too sweet, but it burns a lot less and goes down fairly smooth, so I think I’m okay with my choice.

I spent some time talking politics with a girl who had been with four men that day, although I’m fairly sure I was one of them. She held her own quite well. Take that as you will. I try not to pass judgement though, since if it wasn’t for girls like her, guys like me would have nothing interesting to write about.

I noticed a while back that I tend to romanticize self-destruction. A recovering alcoholic that I know told me that one day, after he retires, he wants to buy a big house out in the desert somewhere in New Mexico and drink himself to death. It’s strange, but somehow I find that heartbreakingly beautiful.

When I was younger I would write poems about the way light filtered through the glass of empty beer bottles and how different colored glass made me miss the different girls that I had loved. Now it just makes me miss the beer that was in them.

They tell me that peeling the labels off bottles is a sign of sexual frustration. When I’m peeling the clothes off women I often wish they were bottles.

I liked the color of her glass and her label said, “Taste Me”, so I was happy to give her a try. A little hoppy and not enough head, but well rounded and full bodied. Not an all-together unpleasant experience. At the very least, I’d certainly drink one again if it was offered.

I think my perfect woman is a good glass of scotch. Aged eighteen years. Smokey, without all the burn. Smooth going down. Always on the rocks.

That may have been more direct than I intended.

It’s hard being wordy when you’re this hungover. Almost as hard as being pithy when you’re twelve deep into a thirty rack and gaining momentum by the minute.

I should probably shower and wash last night off, but for now I’ll let it stick with me. At least I think that’s what that is.