One bourbon, one Scotch, & one beer... 3 drunk poems by Hosho McCreesh

Waking

on a couch,

your friend’s couch,

and no idea

how you

got there.

You’re filthy,

but otherwise

okay.

You can’t even 

remember

leaving the

bar.

And you can’t find

the novel you

were reading,

but it seems

that might be

the only price

you’ll have to pay

for last night,

and besides

they make 

more novels,

so you’re

okay with

that.

On the table

next to you

they’ve left you

a cup of water

and that like-to-about

breaks your heart.

So you get up,

take a piss,

and decide on a

naked dip

in their pool

before anyone

gets up.

The shock of the 

cold water on you

gets the blood pumping,

and the lungs gasping,

and so does the climb out, 

the cool summer morning air,

and you grab a towel

and sun a bit.

Your buddy

finds you out back

and fills you in on

all you were 

there for but

completely missed,

and you both laugh about

what an unreasonable ass

you can sometimes be,

and his girl comes out,

and you apologize for

being naked in her pool

and using a good towel.

“Bah—who cares,

let’s go get breakfast,” 

and later you’re gonna 

take a beautiful girl to the Jemez

so this day is really shaping up, 

and on the way to breakfast

you ask your buddy

about it, and

it turns out 

you didn’t

lose the novel

after all.

---------------

Dragging

too much shit

through the streets of

Glasgow, late for

a plane, and desperate

to find the damn

train that'll get you

to the airport while

the flop sweat pours 

off of you in 

sheets.

And when you do get a train, 

and finally find the airport, 

you're 2 hours late, and

can’t hardly find a soul

at the ticket counters

to help sort it all out.

And you think Well hell,

I'm not gonna need any of 

these English pounds,

so I might as well

drink it all 

away.

So, at the end of the

hall you find a bar called 

Graceland and, of course, 

there's Elvis shit 

everywhere. 

And at Graceland, there’s 

a barmaid named Ember,

“Like the coals in 

a fire,” she says,

and you're having

Guinness and a Scotch,

Guinness and a Scotch,

and your plan is

to get drunk enough to

survive sleeping on the

awful fiberglass

airport benches.

And after a couple more Guinness, 

and another Scotch, Ember 

seems to be hinting about

renting you a bed at her place,

and you don't know if that means 

rent, or if that means 

something else.

So you buy her a drink,

and every 90 seconds

you hear some goddamned

Woody Woodpecker ride go 

“Huh-hu-ha Huuuuuuh Huh, 

Huh-hu-ha Huuuuuuh Huh,

Huh-hu-ha Huuuuuuh Huh,

Huh Huh Huh Huh Huh 

Huh Huh Huh Huh…”

And that bed is starting to

sound pretty damn good, 

so you keep buying drinks,

only she gets nervous—

like you're trying to

do something besides

just drink your 

money away.

And a friend of hers arrives, 

and she's got some kind of

emergency, and Ember

apologizes to you, and you

tell her it’s fine, to go with 

her friend, that sleeping there 

is honestly no problem, 

and so she goes, and 

you crash out.

Until Woody Woodpecker

gets back to it,

“Huh-hu-ha Huuuuuuh Huh, 

Huh-hu-ha Huuuuuuh Huh,

Huh-hu-ha Huuuuuuh Huh,

Huh Huh Huh Huh Huh 

Huh Huh Huh Huh…”

and you're crawling around,

trying to figure out

how to unplug the

goddamned thing,

only you can't find

the power cord.

So it's like that all night,

and they don't make enough

Guinness and Scotch

to drink Woody Woodpecker

and Ember away.

And in the morning

you are so fucking

haggard that, when you

open your eyes, you

terrify a young boy 

who has been staring at you, 

one who gasps, and ducks

behind the chair back,

because he clearly 

thought you were 

dead.

And in the bathroom, 

you piss for about 

4 solid minutes, and

in the mirror you

laugh a little at your

bloodshot, unshaven mug, 

shutting your eyes then 

quickly opening them,

imagining yourself as

the frightened boy,

then you stick your head

under the tap, and

try to scrub up a bit,

and comb your hair. 

And as you walk to your gate

for your flight to Dublin,

you look at Graceland,

dark, closed up, and quiet,

and wonder once more 

about all the things

that might've

been.

---------------

Cracking open another Pabst 

you say, “It’s a good thing

this shit is cold, 'cuz it 

sure ain't good.” 

And your buddy says,

“Whoa whoa whoa 

there heretic!”

“Are you kidding?” you say.

“Um, are you kidding?!”

your buddy says.

“It’s cold, sure,” you say, 

“but that's about it.” 

And your buddy 

looks at you for a moment, 

takes a long guzzle 

from his beer, and says,

“Let me break it down 

for you like a fraction:

They don't give blue ribbons

to second-place beers.”

And just like that 

it’s clear that the

matter is no 

longer up for 

debate.

Hosho McCreesh is currently writing & painting in the gypsum & caliche badlands of  the American Southwest. His work has appeared widely in print, audio, & online.

Street artist unknown.
Photo by Adam Lawrence.

FIDLAR is a young LA-based band that released their debut album back in January on Mom + Pop Music.