Miller High Life

The good ole days
are gone
but, not forgotten
looking back on it now
I can’t tell you the number of Miller High Life bottles
that have fallen victim
to my thirst
upon mean evenings of typing words
that made lines
that made poems
that seldom made sense
but one thing that was always in 
tall, fine order 
was the Champagne of Beers
that sweet Senorita kicking her leg 
from that sliver of golden moon
the best rocket fuel
one could hope for
when alone and out numbered
huddled behind the monitor screen
as the night burned like a thousand witches
outside the thin glass
of a bedroom window.


Borodin’s In The Steppes of Central Asia
spinning around the turntable
conducted by Leopold Stokowski
was a great way to spend 
an hour or two sucking down
a half dozen tall cool ones
Miller High Life
making the fingers leap and fly
across the lettered keys
keeping all the bastards at bay
the collection agencies, the bosses, the bill collectors, the CHP
the women that came and left 
with a pound of your soul 
taken as toll
and the dogs would come scratching 
around the front door
they sniffed and pissed
but I never let them in
for I was holding high court
with some of the best friends 
ten bucks could buy.


I smoked a lot in those days
by myself
typing out long letters to no one
a bloodletting of the soul
thinking I was that much closer to divinity
as I told the stories of those 
less fortunate characters
that life had turned it’s back on
myself included.


Towards the end 
old Charlie asked me if I had ever
smelled Miller High Life
as we were out at the job
picking up dead bodies 
at the local hospitals
for 25 bucks a call
Charlie had been a regional manager 
for the Miller Brewing Co.
way back in the day
and used to get the stuff by the case load
for free
I was green with envy
he said it was the greatest time he had ever known
until one day somebody told him to smell
the fine brew
and with one whiff
the walls came crashing down
said it smelled like sweaty baboon ass
and he could never bring himself to drink it again.


When I got home that night
I opened the frig and grabbed 
a cold, golden bottle of the High Life
popped the top 
and before the first swig
I leaned my right nostril down,
and low and behold,
I smelled what can 
only be described as
the butt funk of a sweaty asshole
that had not been touched by toilet paper 
sense the beginning of time
and though I still drank 
the High Life that night
I was never too fond of it 
from that point 
forward.


I still miss those good ole days
when it was just me, Miller High Life, an ashtray
the written word and the aching night.


Nothing has come close sense. . .