cubistpoet

I have been victimized.

If you're especially sensitive,
I recommend that you cover your ears this evening,
because the tale that I'm about to spin into
is so... disgusting and repulsive that
you may find yourself rushing to the bathroom
to expel this morning's scrambled eggs and toast.

Ready? Thought I'm not sure that I am.

This morning.... I found....
a bottle of Vodka in the trash.
But no, no, no it gets worse.
The Vodka was... give me a second,
the memory's just so....
I'll just say, because I don't know how to soften the blow.
It was Heaven Hill.

Do you know what this means?
My mother, my own flesh and blood
drinks CHEAP Vodka!

And I wish that it was as simple as
the difference between putting premium and regular unleaded in your car,
but it's a little more like she's drinking the gasoline herself
straight from the pump letting waves of Iraqi blood cascade down her body
like some kind of Girls of Exxon wet T-Shirt contest.

Did you ever as a teenager drive down to Wal-mart
to buy a bottle of off-brand rubbing alcohol
then chug it in the little boy's room at school
when the hall monitor wasn't busy watching you
with his hands down his bands filled with
pedophilic domination fantasies?

That gives you a slight idea of how disgusting this is
except now imagine that you could buy the finest
french wine for five whole dollars more at Wal-mart
a whole two or three shelves over,
but you bought the rubbing alcohol anyway
because it left you enough change for
a cheap bic lighter and a bargain bin
pack of crumpled and broken cigarettes.

Do you see the scarring shooting out of my mind in a spiraling unicorn horn?

Could this be the first tragic mis-step
on some sort of twelve step program
to becoming white trash?

What's next? Driving old, rusted pow-pow-power wheels to work every morning?

How do you save someone from themselves?
How do you stop a spiraling descent into mediocry?

You can't.
You don't.

You can only sit on the sidelines waiting to be tagged by the coach
as trains wreck themselves in slow-motion through your living room walls
as plastic jug after plastic jug of Vodka bottles fill up your entire house
until they spill out into the yard and start demanding blood,
feeding of your pets and your neighbors and drinking the gasoline from your cars.

Now, I'm not saying that my mother's an alcoholic,
but I am saying that I've caught her laughing
one too many times at Walker, Texas Ranger for my comfort,
and it makes me want to watch my own back,
because settling for less than the best
is fine when the pocketbook is empty and the cupboard is bare,
but if you're not careful you'll begin to believe the lies you tell yourself
and then Western Sizzlin' will be the best steak you'll ever eat again.

Call me crazy, but I'll take dissatisfaction.