The Fighters Logic
A warrior is only good for the battlefield. When not killing or healing his wounds he simply lives to die. Drinking, fucking, thirsting for endless combat, and sharing stories with those who understand. To walk upon the edge is to understand the frailty of life itself. Apart from that he dies long before his last breath. I understand the battle but I am useless without a fight. The grave is already dug its why death is not a fear just something I except and move on. When you know that which others simply read of in stories you can never explain the loss . The pain is something to haunt only your dreams and those nights that find you alone . I no longer live I simply exist and wait . Drinking to forget and wishing to know that thrill no one person can give me. My brothers who fell before me were the lucky ones . For they died in honor as I just waste away. When a fighter no longer has a reason to fight it’s simply a matter of time.
Just The Seagulls
I found myself burnt out as always alone on the beach . Why the hell was I drawn here I cannot say . Maybe I was a junkie for the pain maybe I just was unoriginal . And maybe it just reminded me of you . Either way I was here blown out of my socks as usual . The ocean is a force unto itself . It held many a man’s soul as once I held you . It wasn’t a game or a line it was my life and I was tired of giving my soul to get nothing in return . If I was paying dues then I must of had a hell of debt my friends . A blown out liver and bad heart always on the verge chasing a false promise stuck in the sand while others simply passed me by. I lost it all and gained shit in return keep your slaps on the back. Give me a paycheck and a corner booth let me die with my vices . But time is a cruel bitch. But no matter her intentions here I stood always hoping the sunset would find more than a closed door and a swift kick in the ass. The seagulls lived a second at a time on the verge of starvation . Waiting for the tide to bring the next meal. I questioned many things in this life . My direction was not amongst these questions. I watched the sunrise for free was the view. Cause you couldn’t tax nature’s beauty. When I left the beach i noticed a parking ticket on my windshield . The tide brought in many things and the asshole with a badge killed my buzz. Full circle was something I was beginning to understand . The seagulls thrived on nothing as I did the bottle . We all need something . I just needed enough to buy another bottle . Dreams are for the sleeping.
They say Neil Peart hates fans and seldom has the urge to shake a hand or sign a autograph. He rarely even socializes with his bandmasters. I admire his disdain for people. But unlike him I don’t have millions of dollars. Or am I surrounded by all the things my fans gave in support of my art. Maybe it’s cause I don’t play a instrument. But if I was given some luxury. I would probably not mind shaking a hand or signing a autograph. I enjoy my privacy so I can understand that part. I just think maybe old Neil lost a drumstick or two along the way. Well from how he sounds if ever he runs low he could always pull one out of his ass. Never take yourself serious as good old Neil.
Pirates All The Same
I write like a well oiled machine cranking out Fiction and poetry like a madman. It now gets picked up by various mags. I gain homes little by little. Like a pirate and the sea I find refuge in many ports along the coast. Some welcome me with open arms and shared laughs. Others just wish I was gone no sooner than I arrived. And a few treated me like like a ex wife.
Clearly looking for a chance to sink the blade within my turned back. No wonder I always sat with my back against the wall. Viewing the room and counting the hours. I never stayed anywhere too long I learned to stay moving was the price tag for this path. I found my dream and created my own nightmare bled the years of my soul for a seconds notoriety upon that page. Making a name amongst many and taking comfort in a rare few. We were all captains of are own egos ships.
We recognized each other when we shared a port. We understood what the rest never could.
We sacrificed all for a hope not a promise. They were all as cut throat as myself. No wonder I respected them so. I would share a beer but never a thought. After all we were still pirates all the same. I end with a toast to you all.
He played everyone like a fiddle. His act was that of the fool. He counted his paychecks and laughed all the way to the bank. And I simply gave him a ride. He always stopped at the liquor store to pick up a fifth along the way. He was a prick but it was my job to drive. He often got hammered and spoke to himself because he was the only one that ever cared to listen to his shit. I tuned him out like all the rest. He laughed to himself them kept on talking as a fool often does. Must have seen his reflection in the window. I truly hated my job. I dropped him off at his home he handed me a twenty.
It wasn’t worth the stress of having to block out the crazy man in the back seat. He cut a fart as he got out the cab. It stank much like his personality. I put the car in reverse and was on my way.
I spoke to myself also . But I didn’t care much for my jokes so I never laughed. I was crazy to but this job makes you this way. Always watching your back trying to get somewhere ahead takes its toll. Rearview madness is a shared condition amongst cabbies. And I was slowly losing it one fare at a time.
John Patrick Robbins is a barroom poet whose work has appeared in:
Red Fez, Horror Sleaze Trash, Piker Press, Romingos Porch, Piker Press, Outlaw Poetry , Inbetween Hangovers, Your One Phone Call.