John Jive (Horrigan) & Vince Labor

This is a copy of an email I sent to John & Vince today in preparation for John Jive's vacation to CA

***Been meaning to send both of you this for awhile. Of course, it IS a poem, and a 'compilation' at that, written many years ago! But I thought you'd both enjoy it; that it would stir some memories! Feel free to pass it on (Nancy, Alex, etc), but other than close friends, I'd actually prefer if they bought the eBook!

Hope that you two will be able to get together! For certain, I can't make it to LA. John, take a digital camera and take LOTS of pic! (I can put up a 'reunion' web page if you like.)


Southern Comfort


Many a night, we would gather, count
and pool our meager cash,
then make a last run to the liquor
store before it closed
to buy as many pints as we could.
Unwilling to wait for gratification,
or the promised comfort, we cracked
the first bottle while leaning against
the car in the store's parking lot.
We passed the bottle lovingly around,
actually a communion of sorts,
each taking in turn, a first sweet mouthful
and swallowing with a delighted shiver.
A ritual we'd developed over time
and practiced no matter the season.
One bottle quickly killed we'd crack
another and stash the remaining bottles
in the trunk of the car, for safety,
while on our way to somewhere.
Often, we went to the park, occupied
the swings that playing children
had no doubt, reluctantly left
a few short hours before. Or we hung
from the jungle gym never missing
a swig from the passing bottle
or a hit from the passing joint,
nor did we ever lose track of the talk.
We always dedicated each bottle
of Southern Comfort to one of us; musicians
actors, dancers, writers and poet,
and our ilk. Or to some current
and close to our hearts cause whenever
we thought of our social responsibilities,
which was frequent and melodramatic.
Social responsibilities as impacted by art,
that is. Therefore, we regularly solved
the major problems of the world.
But mostly we discussed our ideas of art,
and the social tragedy of being artists.
And we got drunk. And we got loaded.
To a person, we bravely laughed out loud
in the spectacular darkness, knowing how apt
we were to cry, scream, howl
in the light of the following day.
Out of those beautiful, strange nights,
those nights when we shared our souls,
each of us grew without knowing it.
During those Southern Comfort nights,
we bravely dissected our futility
to find it a manageable terror.
During those strange nights, the roads
each of us would eventually travel
were mapped out with precision.
And during those Southern Comfort nights,
uncountable poems were conceived;
sounds were found, styles developed.
So that now, those bastard conceptions,
as well as the ideas, and ethics,
of those incredible Southern Comfort nights,
today goad me to produce multitudes
of poems, sounds to keep me company
in my now sober, self-imposed isolation.
And sometimes, when the moon is full
or the night is consumed by storms;
that park pulls me, though it's hundreds
of long miles from here and now.
At those times, I can almost hear
those far-ago voices, and the laughter,
of my companions, my friends, my peers,
today scattered across a continent.
Oh, and I'd swear that I can taste, feel
the sweet burning sensation of
Southern Comfort coursing down my throat.

All rights reserved by evvy garrett