the Bukowski hour

when I was a child,
I heard that my uncle was an alcoholic.
at first, I didn’t know the meaning
of the word alcoholic
so I asked my mom
and she pointed out,
on the way to school,
the old men on the bar,
chests bare,
swollen hands, red faces,
drinking shots of hard liquor,
8 AM in the morning.

so, that was my definition
of an alcoholic,
formed at the tender age of 11.

little did I know
about alcoholics
until
(long-story-short:
someone goes away,
someone is left behind,
a heart is broken.)
I grew older
and despair was
all we knew,
and relief was
at the end of a bottle.

little did I know
that there are all kinds
of alcoholics
among us.

little did I know
that they can function
and that they live
and breathe
(seemingly normal)
and that not all of them
are at the bar.

little did I know
that you can be
an-old-man-at-the-bar-alcoholic
but also
a young-person-with-no-hopes-or-dreams alcoholic,
a poser-grad-student-that-wants-to-be-a-poet alcoholic,
a little-pick-me-up-in-the-morning alcoholic,
a can’t-deal-properly-with-trauma-and-won’t-find-help alcoholic,
a whiskey-in-the-coffee-before-work alcoholic,
a won’t-go-there-if-there-isn’t-booze alcoholic,
a ruining-family-reunions alcoholic,
a burns-all-bridges alcoholic,
a takes-no-prisoners alcoholic.

little did I know.
little do I know.

Advertisements

Tags: , , , , ,

now, your turn!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s