Monte’s writing is a Molotov Cocktail headed straight for the government. His words are on fire.
Another Great Poem by Street Poet Monte Smith
My friends keep telling me I need to go out and cut loose. "Monte,
come on man... let's go get fucked up, it's going to be great!" But
sadly for them my response is always the same: "Thanks, but no
thanks."
They don't understand I am 'cutting loose' by not going out.
I'm too old to keep finding myself at two in the morning standing
sideways in stale beer joints, looking for a joint. Besides, I can't
stand late night lip service; it's always seasoned with cheap cocaine,
draft beer and egotism. Not only will bar babble bore the fuck
out of you, I firmly believe this ceremonial act can give you tumors
the size of cauliflower.
The wayward ritual of speaking in tongues and doing key bumps
in piss-soaked bathrooms night after night, sadly in the name of
sacrificing reserve notes upon the wooden alter non-believers call
a bar, is meaningless. There's more to life than digesting hours of
rotgut and drunken dialogue from a misfit clergy of working class
stiffs, alcoholics and hustlers, one after the other spilling drinks
and spewing last minute confessions: "I'm going to stop drinking
tomorrow"..."I need to get a job"..."Fuck it, let's go back to my house
and finish this eight ball!"
I can't help but laugh. I've lost enough mornings face first in strange
toilet bowls to know I don't want to end up in someone's living room
after the bar closes, sitting in a mirror passing circle listing to empty
promises from speed freaks until the booze and drugs run out. The
problem I have with this 'dumb-thirsty' mentality is, nothing changes.
No matter what night it is, or in some cases mornings, the smells,
language and outcome are always the same: semi-grown men and
women running from a dawn soon coming.
Have you ever left a closing bar with the intention of going home only
to find yourself ten minutes later at an after party doing coke with someone
you barely knew? Or as I use to call it, "last call at the hall of mirrors".
While there did you ever notice in those amorphous hours how spectacular
and positive the friendship was, only to find your next encounter with
the exact same persons or person is awkward or negative. I've even had
'the next meet' described to me as "dirty".
Not me. I see it for what it is: a sobering moment of regret and discovery.
It's fun to go out and get fucked up in the beginning, but it's easy for the
'beginning' to turn into a lifetime of debauchery and delusion only Charles
Bukowski could respect. Some of you dumb-thirsty missionaries may think
I'm over-reacting, but I expect that from animals who have traded reality
and self-control for fire water and bar-nuts. I know from personal experience
how easy it is to drown in other people's misery and personal bullshit. Too
many actors are on the run from reality and warrants in those late night
rooms of suffering.
"Monte, come on man... let's go get fucked up, it's going to be great!"
Yeah, um... thanks, but no thanks!
For More Great Poetry By Monte Smith, Visit him on any of his contacts down below and purchase his fantastic book
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