POEMVEMBER 2018-DAY 28:“Guy’s Night”

“Slainte” ©️C.P. Hickey 2017

“Guy’s Night”

Gather round ye lads of youth and life.

Drink full of an everlasting glass.

The pour is great there.

Time to convene for the yearly stock taking.

Counting fellows, and blessings, and slights.

Like many, many nights, that delivered us to this brief respite.

Oh how much comfort I find in your aging faces.

I confide a friend keeps pace,

And regrets nothing while peering at an early morning mirror.

Such an honor to have passed time with you all.

I repeat, as it bears repeating, a distinct honor.

Fellowship, brotherhood, a lifetime.

There is not much better.

Campfires, ball busting, shared silence, petty differences; all part and parcel boys.

Part and parcel.

It’s been a phenomenal run, and unprecedented.

Not many are lucky to have a best friend in this life.

We each, more than seven.

The whole is truly greater than the sum of its parts.

The night belongs to us, it always has.

It will continue, until we belong to it.

Slainte! Lads, slainte!

A special thank you goes out to my friend Kenny Hayes. It’s always nice to get him involved in my projects. Kenny and I have been friends for a lifetime, and a way in which we continue to grow and cultivate our friendship is through continually regrouping to take stock, share laughs, and create new memories. I couldn’t have a greater group of friends. They all help me to navigate this world, and make it a whole hell of a lot more interesting. I’m happy Kenny decided to issue a term that sits well in my head and heart. Looking forward to our next gathering already.

Poemvember 2018, is a month long poetry project where colleagues, friends, and associates volunteer a word or phrase, which I in turn fashion into a poetical response. I have great fun exploring all the possibilities that are volunteered, and enjoy collaborating with people whether they are writers, poets, or readers.

If you enjoyed this post, stay tuned for the remaining two days of the project, which will soon to be followed by a new month long project: The ProCrasstheNation.com Advent Calendar Blog. Give me a month, and I’ll give you 25 Mysterious Decorative Doors. What awaits behind each day’s door? Well, you’ll have to click the door links to find out. Please join me for what promises to be a fun month of poems, stories, and a few Christmas Surprises.

Previous Poemvember Post

If anyone is in the Metro Boston area on December 7th, please consider joining me, and my best friend, the West Coast Bandit, as we attend a night full of entertainment for a great cause at: Don’t Forget Your Art!

There is a strong rumor that I will be performing a previously unpublished piece.

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https://www.paperlesspost.com/flyer/go/j1BZnnAFjklWlNTM7JQp

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam! – Day 29 – “Life by the Drop”

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“Life by the Drop”

 

Where were you when you heard “the” song?

Moments come and go, all life long.

 

“the” song, “the” song.

 

Rich with meaning, articulate view.

With words totally related to you.

 

“the” song, “the” song.

 

A universally shared secret,

A cold clarion beacon.

 

“the” song, the “song”.

 

A well thought out lyric,

a chest puffing pyrrhic.

 

“the” song, “the” song.

 

Forging a memory,

Melodic indemnity.

 

“the” song, “the” song.

 

Living life by the drop,

Don’t want it to stop.

 

“the” song, “the” song.

 

 

A very special thanks to Brenda A, because the discovery of a good can benefit many, and it all starts with a musical mantra that finds you caught in an unsuspecting moment.

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam is a project in which people have joined me for 40 days and 40 nights of on-demand poetry. They have submitted the concepts, ideas, and subjects; I’ve done the work.

 

 

 

 

 

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam! – Day 27 – “Low Hopes”

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http://www.sif.net/wordpress/?tag=urban-conga-line

“Low Hopes”

I find it curious that people put an end time on a party invite.

No room to breathe, extraordinarily inorganic.

Restrictive and lacking in color.

Party end times should always remain open-ended.

Don’t you think?

Sometimes my best work is accomplished in the waning energy of a social gathering.

I feel no pressure from the ticking clock as it advances.

My job is to break through that wall, become unmoored, and push all envelopes to the point of excess.

I am the progeny of Bacchus.

In fact, a direct descendent by blood.

Bloodlines, red wines, dancing divine.

Party is my middle name,

and  I prefer engagements that weave endlessly onward toward dawn,

then onto brunch, wrapped up in giggling walks of shame.

Debauchery mystifies and beguiles my smiling eyes.

Mischief is to be masterfully made.

Do me a favor if you are having a party,

Have the decency to let the party determine its own life.

Definitely a start time, but the end time should be less finite, and stretch outward like an expanding universe.

Until, there is no light or energy left, but the void of space, and false burping hangovers, punctuated by piercing headaches in search of more excess.

A very special thanks to Sir Christopher Coxen. The future may be queer, but it is certainly bright.

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam is a project in which people have joined me for 40 days and 40 nights of on-demand poetry. They have submitted the concepts, ideas, and subjects; I’ve done the work.

“Hot Urine”

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“Hot Urine”

Oh, the years in between,

then and now.

But, how?

Traveling from Boston to Miami.

From Miami to Key West.

At tradition’s behest.

Appropriately dressed.

A briefcase full of booze.

New Balance shoes.

A plush animal stolen from a Walpole Kegger.

Kennel beneath the plane, in cargo.

Chompah!

Midnight Rompah.

Chicanery ensued.

Krispy Kreme paper hats.

Suspicious fun.

Arrived before we left,

bereft of sobriety,

and

propriety.

Miami Airport Car Rental Center.

A Trojan Hearse.

 

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http://www.2040-cars.com/_content/cars/images/21/454321/001.jpg

 

Full of dead youth,

not for lack of trying.

 A bachelorhood dying,

for spite and gripe,

and a nasty fuck of fiancée,

that later enlightened me.

Not all stories have a happy ending,

neither do massages.

Messages crossed,

and we’re off!

160 miles to where the birds land,

where the pelicans can,

Pelican Landing.

Key West grandstanding.

So demanding.

Three hours, and twenty-two minutes,

according to MapQuest.

 

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First stop, packy.

Pile in backy.

How does one decrease the ETA to a more palatable time?

No bathroom breaks.

Just groupthink,

and speed limit skill.

Don’t spill.

Six cases of beer.

Beer in, beer out.

Bucket brigade.

Don’t drink the Kool-Aid!

Hot Urine!

Pass the cuppy to the left one time,

shotgun launch.

Highway becomes whizzway.

Solo cups,

filled up,

passed up.

Returned empty.

How do you get to Carnegie Hall?

Practice.

How do you get to Key West?

Debauchery.

All that time saved,

ETA decreased.

What does one do with the excess?

Why, you spend it wisely of course,by stopping at the first Adult Store available.

Twenty-five cent peeps.

Screen down, screen up.

Jizz mopper at attention.

Not a mention,

of the tension,

released.

Novelty:

A bumpah stickah slapped on the back of the great white whale.

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Many horns accompanied us on our surge to Mordor.

Solos used, beers consumed.

When did we get there?

We got there before we arrived.

The lot imbibed.

Boston Pride.

Hot Urine ride.

All over the sides.

On the Hunt for Freeto Pies.

Not denied.

Returned the white whale to the rental deal,

it had more of a mustard sheen,

our pelican queen.

Bladder camaraderie.

Landing on a Key West Beach.

Chompah, unleashed.

Megaphones, and Hemingway homes.

Discocock.

Duval Block.

Papa Joe found his soul,

at Teasers.

Met Derek,

and his mullet.

Broke all the rules,

of the pool.

Within twelve minutes of arriving.

Got launched from Pelican Landing.

Cash withstanding.

Megaphones demanded.

Eat my ass!

Eat my ass!

Perhaps, in a different quarter the response would have been more acceptable.

Blue Marlin Motel.

 

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Mexican Wrestling Masks.

Sunburns.

Swingers.

Kid Rock routine boombox,

while Sarah Smiles played her bass in tune.

Naked hangs.

Stolen bikes.

“Wouldn’t fuck you for a nickel!”

Boy, did that incite.

 

Memory forgets.

 

Oh, the years in between,

then and now.

But, how?

Traveling from Boston to Miami.

From Miami to Key West.

Those guys were the best,

some are fiercely missed.

Traveling down the highway of life,

a fellowship of launched piss.

“Potential Energy Transferring to Kinetic Energy”

guinness

 

“Potential Energy Transferring to Kinetic Energy”

 

the salvation of a single pour,

rolled down the tap, I wanted more.

I know not how it came to this?

tension, between our every kiss.

your breath reneged, despite the thrill.

your smoothness guides my greedy swill.

a stolen glance, by chance indeed.

your apathy denies my need.

please, please, please…

concede, …

an opportunity for love’s reprieve.

I love thee,

I repeat…

 

I love thee.