one hundred ounces

Had an extra thirteen bucks and it's sixty some degrees
after four months of the hardest winter I've ever seen.

Bought a pouch of tobacco, the good shit, and four
twentyfive ounce cans of beer, the not so good shit.
It's three fortythree in the afternoon, and the dividends
from the "best to prepared"s are paying off.

The backporch is clear, and the wooden rocker likes its space.
Cleaned the basement, our bedrooms, shed, kitchen, dining room;
did the yardwork and at least started rebuilding the things that need it.
My best buddy lit off on his path, leaving behind the homelife stuff
to we that might want it, me getting the Bose soundsystem
that makes the neighbors find out what love will make you do too.

Nothing to do but rock on a wooden chair
that has never felt so free
and pour one hundred ounces out into the world
and see if it sticks.

All the big shit still sits;
she is still due in August
and we still don't talk.

I still have to make things right.

Right enough, because my pop did,
and we didn't even share last names.
Right enough,        
because it just has to happen.

Scrapped the for real fucked up stuff;
wasn't this translucent even when the law thought I was.

Maturing where it took so long to do so and puttting up
barbed wire where the value I swear to
hasn't euthanized itself yet.

Hafta make me worth something
and become someone presentable.

My dear son,
I only know two things for certain
and one of them
cancels out the other

but it is usually best to keep busy
and it's always best to keep the women happy.
Never trust a poet that can't get laid
and know that nothing stays making sense.

Be as simple a man as is possible my boy;
complexity is the expression of the universe
only to the outside observer.
  
Enjoy any shred should you be able to
and learn beyond all, to let yourself dance.