Words of Women & Whiskey: The Collection That Wasn't
There was a time in my life when I considered myself a writer and poet. I had forgotten about that until I read ImPerceptibility's take on me (a-ha).
I spent too many years in college sitting up late drinking wine and listening to Chet Baker while trying to use my words to woo women. Eh, it was hit and miss.
The best part about majoring in writing was that it was filled with workshops and poetry readings. They were the only classes where the excuses of sex and drinking were accepted as valid reasons for being late or absent.
"But did you write, Mr. Honea?" they would say, eager for my answer.
"Yes. Yes, I did. I wrote my sexy, drunk ass off." I would reply.
They would clasp their hands, smile, and motion for me to be seated. Sometimes I would wink at a fellow student as I made my way to my seat. The next week they would wink at me.
The thing is, I still consider myself a writer, but the poet has been buried. Granted, I did go speak to a group of high schoolers just this past February in the guise of a poet, but what the hell, I was still making my living slinging drinks at that point. However, I've got to admit, it went well.
I guess what it comes down to, is that aside from a few bits that I have written for the boys, I haven't done much in this vein in too long. It's time to break out the needle.
I want to feel that again- to live life as a poet. Society cuts the crazies a lot of slack, and there is no one crazier than a man that writes poetry and flaunts it.
Cut me some slack.
There is a collection of poems that I put together, back in those days of innocence and ignorance that covered the winding road of the heart, (hey, it's poetry, what do you want?) and they ranged from the highest high to the lowest low. If you've read any of my fiction then you have an idea of the darkness I played in. The following is the title piece from the collection, although I don't believe it to be the best, it's decent enough that I'll share it and not fear it's judgment.
If you made it this far you may as well read the damn thing:
Words of Women and Whiskey
How many sirens
do you hear at night
(against the echoes
of distant trains
and the constant
barking of alley dogs)?
where someone lost,
maybe not the war,
but the battle,
and I can't help but wonder
if they were fighting the words
of women and whiskey.