Christian Chmielewski is, as far he knows, an unpublished ink glutton hailing out Philadelphia, PA.  He would like to whore out his writing, if there are any takers.

Two Poems (November 20, 2009. Issue 11.)

Soon It Will Be Too Late

I know.
That’s why I can’t sleep,
but I still try anyway.
And now even my sheets are tired of my restlessness.

Turned on my side,
I’m stuck staring at the wall,
dimly lit by street light.

And on it…
The silhouette of a poem I taped
above the empty area on my bed
where a woman should be sleeping,
to remind me “there are worse than being alone.”

No need to see the words,
the scar of Bukowski’s “Oh Yes”
has been permanently burnt into my retinas.

I know, Hank;
I’m up. I should get out of bed and write or read, or clean out the basement.
But my eyes burn and the basement is cold,
and it’s warm under these covers.

I know Hank, shut up.
I know.

The Art of the Barfly

Lift the bottle, or pint, or mug,
and let its bottom lip rest
on the pillow of yours.
Raise the base towards Heaven,
and flood the cavern of your mouth.

Place the bottle back on the coaster or napkin,
and look through the glass.
Swallow.
Inhale.
Exhale.

Glance up,
maybe to check the score of the baseball game,
or to glance at the couple with shit eating smiles

sitting too close to each other at the other end of the bar,
then look back down.
Stare through the glass.
Think of your past.
Everything you had.
Everything you had, lost.

Feel the condensation roll over your fingers,
to collect on the cardboard coaster below.

Lift.
Sip.
Glance.
Taste your failure.
Savor.

Slow the pace.

It’s the only method
you know
Anymore.

Lift.
Sip.
Glance.
Taste your failure.
Savor.
Repeat.