Drinking

When I was younger, I used to lie about how much I drink.
Now that I'm older, I lie about how much I drink.

-Deacon Cassidy-

The Bicycle Song... (sung to the tune of Sonny Jim)

Deacon's on a bicycle, Deacon's in the sun.

Deacon's on a bicycle, Deacon's having fun.

Deacon's on a bicycle, Deacon has a smile.

Deacon's on a bicycle, he's gone about a mile.

He rings the bell, He gives a wave.

He's bound for hell, he has no save.

He signals right, he makes the turn.

Oh, the lessons he will learn.

Stick up kid, from the brick.

In his spokes, he puts a stick.

The bike is lost, Deacon's catches air.

Through the projects, without a care.

Deacon's on the ground, his body it does sting.

Deacon's on the ground, the kid takes everything!

Deacon's on the ground, his body feel like shit.

Deacon's on the ground, some blood he does spit.

Oh poor Deacon, when will you ever learn?

All your life, you made the wrong turn...

The Trojan Cycle?

Slam! Deacon's apartment shakes as if it's been struck by a tank. He gasps in horror as he's startled from his dreams of melon collie bliss. He rolls off his air mattress with all the elegance of a drunken one legged ballet dancer. It's 3 pm, the crash has awoken Deacon a solid hour before his usual rising time. What could this be now? The police? An angry neighbor? His mind swirls in anxious anticipation of what the noise could be. With blurry eyes, and nerve shot legs he tip toes across a sea of beer bottles and soup cans to arrive at the front door of his 1 bedroom converted garage unit. Is it the Jamaican landlord? Am I late on rent again? The Jamaican has always been good to me; but he has a temper, and debtors, this could get physical. Deacon loosens the leg off his chair and fancy's it will serve as a good club should this meeting go awry. With caution and fear he creaks the door open. To his surprise he hears not a word, or feels a forceful push-back on the door. Was I only dreaming? He ponders. As he cautiously opens the door wide, and the sun blinds his eyes, he takes a moment to gather himself, and check his surroundings. As his blurred vision fades and his senses gather, he looks out to behold something he never thought he'd see. There crashed into his front door is an old Schwinn bicycle, brown in color, rust on the handlebars. He brandishes the chair leg and calls out for the owner to show themselves, he hears nothing but silence. One more time Deacon hollers, and again he's met with the deafening sound of silence. He inspects the bicycle, it's an older model maybe the 60's but the tires are full of air, and the seat is just slightly ripped. Is this a gift? A gift from the Gods? Oh the things Deacon could do with a bicycle! He rests his "club" down for a moment, and stares at the cycle in disbelief. How could one man get so lucky he wonders. This would make returning cans so much easier, he would no longer have to take the bus to the dollar store for groceries and beer, hell he may even get back into shape, and catch the eye of a desperate woman! He regains himself for a moment and collects his thoughts. With breaking breath, and a quivering voice he lets out one final call. "Is this anyone's bicycle!" he cries. He lends an ear to the vacuum of silence, a Mexican lawn man shakes his head no, and a moment of glee washes over him. He stands up the bicycle, inspects its beauty, and moves to take it inside. As Deacon wipes away a solemn tear, he mutters to himself "what have I done to deserve this?".    

Best Friend

I've been in wars,

And I've been with whores,

I've spent many nights, on bar room floors,

I've done the favor, I didn't savor,

Had the friend, till the end,

Knife in my back, there again,

I look for the light, I'm shown the door,

"One more bartender", "ain't no more"

Streets are cold, blood is hot,

pockets empty, mind is shot,

Where to go, one place on mind,

She's always there, always kind,

She lays me down, on my back,

Pipe to my lips, I take a whack,

There I go, fading now,

brains in bubbles, dick like wow,

This is it, I'm at the end,

See you tomorrow, my only friend,

-Deacon Cassidy-

The Smoker...

Deacon is outside, its the afternoon, 2 pm. It's an odd time for Deacon, most days at this time he's lying in bed, gin near by, wrestling with the idea of getting up, or remaining comatose, most days the later gets the hand held high; but here he is, out in the sun,wondering why he made this decision, wandering the streets, he remembers, "I need a win" he utters this to himself. Deacon is dressed as best he can possibly assemble, hat, button down shirt, clean jeans, shoes. He spies a girl, beautiful, small body, tight clothes, no make up. Deacon is overwhelmed with her beauty; but dare he approach? Deacon, passes back and forth past the girl, she's Asian, about his age, 5'3 and has all the look of a girl that has been to the gym. Tight tank top, short athletic shorts, headphones draped around her neck. Deacon doesn't stand a chance, it's been years since a girl like this has even acknowledged his existence. Deacon, takes a moment, examines his own body, broken ribs from a Puerto Rican in the Bronx, stab wound from some thick mick in South Boston, Sliced eyebrow from some Black guy in California. He's disgusted with himself, and feels he has not a prayer with this stunning beauty. He watches the girl from a distance, he's allured by her beauty; but knows he has not a chance, he turns to walk away. The beautiful Asian girl turns, sparks up a cigarette, and Deacon makes his move...

Cards...

Deacon steps into the neighborhood coffee shop, his first time to the establishment; but not his first time to the location. It used to be a bar he knew so well, the "Red Horse Tavern"; but those days are long gone, The bar has since closed, and the old guard has moved out and the yuppies have come in and set up shop. He reflects for a moment on the days, and nights he used to spend there ... The friends he made, and lost. There was Jerry the Vietnam Veteran, whiskey drinker, he used to spend hours talking of the war and the things he saw, often preaching to a young Deacon about the horrors of war, as well as the women he conquered, it was an even balanced conversation. Jerry was Deacons friend and ally, they shot whiskey together, laughed, learned, Jerry has since passed on...throat cancer... Marcus, the African American postal worker, he would stop in for a pint while on his route. Marcus was big and loud, hated his wife; but had no courage to leave her, 3 kids he needed to put through college, Marcus was good for a pint and a bet, never won the gamble, then he'd be on his way, Deacon liked Marcus, very much, last he heard he lost his job and was working in a warehouse. There was Luis, a hearty Puerto Rican, very robust, he always brought cheer and food for the boys, Chorizo, Empanadas, and Beans, he never paid for a drink and nobody ever asked him too. Played Spanish music on the juke box and would even dance a bit, shook everyone's hand and called them brother, always came with plenty of warmth, food, and love,  Deacon liked him a lot. He, sadly lost his wife and kids in a fire, a genuine tragedy, last Deacon heard of him he was rumored to be living somewhere near Cincinnati, in a shelter... The coffee shop is bustling with hipsters, laptops, and the privileged,  Deacon takes a breath and staggers back. The clerk is polite as Deacon orders his apple juice for $4.00. Deacon pays and takes a seat in the very corner he had some thoughtful conversations, with Jerry, Marcus, and Luis, life lessons. Deacon takes a sip from his apple juice and leans back, he's confused a bit. As he sits in his unbalanced wooden chair and takes a moment to take in his new surroundings, he utters to himself... "Cards" he's jealous for a moment; but only a moment. He looks at the young, the bright, the privileged. Deacon recollects, Marcus taught me cards, Marcus used to say, not everyone gets a fair hand, some have a great hand, some have an decent hand, some have nothing... The difference is how good of a player you are, a bad hand can beat a good hand if your capable... Deacon takes a moment, breathes hard, and takes in the arrogance and pretentiousness that surrounds him, Sighs deeply, looks into his own hand and utters "I can win"...



Dedicated to -TK-

The Black Eye

A black eye is not just a condition, or an expression; but a sign... Somewhere in a poor bastards life something went awry. True, they could be accidents, much like children; but for the majority of Black eye owners, they were seeking something they ought not to, and ended up with something they don't want. A black eye sends a message, one of two meanings. "This person has it rough, or this person gets rough" it evokes both sympathy and disdain, "Poor thing, or don't trust them"... the owner of the eye often seeks to conceal it; but after time it becomes a part of you, you accept it, much like an unwanted child, you hope it works to your benefit. If it intimidates you use it, if it garnishes sympathy you use it, a bartering chip for a story and a free drink at the bar, by God you use it and take pride in the fact the stories get larger and livelier  every time you tell it!  By the time the eye has yellowed and all but faded away, you're not even sure how you got it...