some people are meant to be the drunks. they give the occasional drunk so much more pleasure. Michael Sutton, he was meant to be a drunk. i don’t care what you say, that was when he was alive -- when he knew his fix was coming, imminent. “i’m going to introduce you to . . . “ whatever, he might say about some wine i’ve never tried before, he’d give me a description, like just before meeting some attractive college girl or boy full of talent.
these days i miss him. thinking of our last visit. how could i be honest? he mentions plans for moving up to the northwest, how can i tell him that my wife shudders at the idea of him living near us? you creep her out, i might say, but never do. i never know how to read Beth, he tells me many times. Beth is always an enigma to him. She doesn’t say enough to clue him in, yet she is alert & not much escapes her & he sees that. but i can’t explain her, i’m her husband. ah, it’s fine, fine.
tonight i drink a bottle of wine, el gato negro, which mike introduces me to probably in the boise days, in our depressive 4-plex living, yet wine & pills get us so elevated & numb to the problems of tomorrow, it’s all tonight. tonight, things are truly what they are, & we are truly who we are, we feel this good, just as warm & feeling as now. pain, well, pain is manageable, tonight. this is who we are.
tonight i drink alone B passed out during our movie, i finish the bottle of wine, take the trash & recycling out to the curb, go back out to the back porch, pull a few times on a tobacco pipe, missing the company of Mike – these were his kind of nights – gut full of wine muting a morning full of responsibilities.
when i see him in heaven, i hope to God that the two of us can sneak off for a drunk, for an evening, we can talk about the saints, he can tell me who he must introduce me to -- who will blow my mind. & i’ll agree, fuck right, man. & hopefully my life won’t be all piss & shit & he can be impressed by some little token of mine, some badge that is a precursor to me, this is my brother Duane, he . . . & he’ll make whatever i’ve done sound better than it actually is. but before all that we’ll have another glass since we’re just getting started,
these days i miss him. thinking of our last visit. how could i be honest? he mentions plans for moving up to the northwest, how can i tell him that my wife shudders at the idea of him living near us? you creep her out, i might say, but never do. i never know how to read Beth, he tells me many times. Beth is always an enigma to him. She doesn’t say enough to clue him in, yet she is alert & not much escapes her & he sees that. but i can’t explain her, i’m her husband. ah, it’s fine, fine.
tonight i drink a bottle of wine, el gato negro, which mike introduces me to probably in the boise days, in our depressive 4-plex living, yet wine & pills get us so elevated & numb to the problems of tomorrow, it’s all tonight. tonight, things are truly what they are, & we are truly who we are, we feel this good, just as warm & feeling as now. pain, well, pain is manageable, tonight. this is who we are.
tonight i drink alone B passed out during our movie, i finish the bottle of wine, take the trash & recycling out to the curb, go back out to the back porch, pull a few times on a tobacco pipe, missing the company of Mike – these were his kind of nights – gut full of wine muting a morning full of responsibilities.
when i see him in heaven, i hope to God that the two of us can sneak off for a drunk, for an evening, we can talk about the saints, he can tell me who he must introduce me to -- who will blow my mind. & i’ll agree, fuck right, man. & hopefully my life won’t be all piss & shit & he can be impressed by some little token of mine, some badge that is a precursor to me, this is my brother Duane, he . . . & he’ll make whatever i’ve done sound better than it actually is. but before all that we’ll have another glass since we’re just getting started,
posted by maxweed at
1:23 AM
2 Comments:
i think you've done a good job relaying the essence of Mr. Sutton. you made me remember and feel him. thank you. i miss him too.
By
A. D. Blade, at 6:30 PM
Thanks. I liked that. I kept remembering when he lived with the Pigs in Dallas. He would come over all the time and hang out... we'd get so drunk, and then talk and talk and talk. Smoking cigarettes, which Mike mostly bummed off me, doing some half-ass art activity while we deep talked our way into a drunken stupor... good times.
By
Extra Gravy, at 6:22 AM
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