Poetry & More by Nate Abaurrea and OliviousMaximus

My good friend and fellow poet, Nate Abaurrea, came by to share with me his newest and latest book “Backroads & Borderlines.”

After some pints we decided to hit the mic and spit some pieces to remind us of those dreaded open-mic nights.

Here is our drunken exchange.



Unwind with glasses of wine, feel fine

talk of the past and share laughs.

Once you’ve broken the seal

one tends to reveal and release.

Secrets leak out and the truth

fights to vomit out the mouth.


Red red wine stained lips whisper

“I’m fine, just going to bed.”

Eyes closed and reopen,

I’m floating in a blood red ocean.

Exhausted and trying to stay buoyant,

nose above water,

in a panic as my jib fills with fluid.

I’m coughing,

I’m drowning…

Pulled up from my shirt

I regain sight of light and

see that my Burmese queen had saved my life.

“Are you okay?” she cries.

Covered in the red red wine we used to unwind.


It’s obscene for some to see

how I bend over on my hands, knees

and crawl around like a fiend

to tear away all the negativity that’s been flourishing within this being.

It’s a sure sight to see how I shake the fright

of the lack of light burning in the scope of the window of my soul.

Or is it another gleem

thats trying to shine within me?

Because the beacon that’s flashing my weaknesses

fades and reinstates itself on the plains

like a lighthouse shining the way

to lost boats off the coast.

I boast to know what it means to be hurt,

but did i learn?

Are my victories part of the lesson i passed with ease?

Are the faults that constantly haunt the reason i don’t let myself fall?

I just wanna rise.

Is that such a crime?

Crossing the Pond

It’s about 0300pm

and im strapped in.

I’m comfortable and leaning back,

with magic edibles stashed in my sack.

Instrumentals snap my synapse

and hysterically arrange my vocabulary.

I’m soaring through the skies,

while dosed out of my mind.

Testing to see,

if i can get higher than astronaut pussy.

A stewardess’ stare, reflecting on my screen’s glare,

will cause some turbulence up in this air.

I’m on full throttle from tiny whisky bottles,

waiting in line for a club that’s “Mile High.”

With no companion in sight,

I sit tight through this transatlantic flight.

You Remind Me…

The similarities in our distinct histories are scary. The script conducting our lives seems plagiarized and this doesn’t feel like our first time. Though we reside in different continents our life experiences are of the same content. Mixed genetics label us ethnically ambiguous, we’re a pair of cultured artists with hearts of revolutionary activists. Identical backstab wounds explain our trust issues and I shake when we both say, “he/she was the same way.” We met at Cilandak for endless talks, sisha that we never got, drinks and planed to visit Kota Tua. Laughing and sipping whisky, i’m delighted by her presence genuinely and frightened at our similar life stories. We made good use of our time together, train tours and sight seeing, enjoying another’s company. Alcohol takes over and impairs what I see, my blurry vision is raising insecurities ‘cause the posture of the silhouette across from me is aggressively familiar. I’m loving but questioning her mannerisms and particular gestures. She’s able to finish each other’s sentences and I’m feeling connected in all senses. But its too familiar. It doesn’t help that her face and smile are similar even her posture and behavior. I’m pacing in my head, because I’m being reminded of who’m I dread. Usher’s tune “You remind me of a girl I once knew” talks truth he says, “It’s unfair to relate her ignorance to you, wish I knew how to separate the two.” He knows how I’m feeling. Because I hate that I’m looking at you but seeing her. Being reminded of the pain she put me through, I cover with a smile through our feast of food. Laughs are spewed and a few brews are had. We’re talking story and sipping glad. Through the jokes you say “You’re just like my dad.” Not sure what you meant by it I sit perplexed. Though I’m proud of my restraint for not saying, “you’re just like my ex.”

2.3 Million Rupiahs

About 2.3Mil rupiahs was added to my hotel’s bill for “damages” that I paid for, cash, in Indonesian $krillz. Compensations for room reparations of a gazillion memories worth more than those indomillions. Never have I ever felt so confident to cop a bill containing so many zeros. But in Southeast Asia one can live like a “king” when holding even the least American green and with stacks of greenbacks imperialists can wreck shop in these metric barhops. I play tourist amidst the conformists in a city so polluted with beauty. My elated heart throbs asphyxiated by gorgeous mobs of hijabs that cover like a dense smog-like fog. With a dropped jaw and breath robbed, I’m stuck standing and waving to them saying “As-salāmu ʿalaykum :)”

Gallivanting open and loud through conservatively quiet Indonesian towns, I stand out, I’m seen and unbeknownst to me my ethnic ambiguity would lure those pursuing to savour a foreign {bule} flavour. With GoogleTranslate as my saviour I begin to mingle with local singles carrying unbelievably distinct and palatably spicy conversations; some lead to my hotel’s damages and accusations. Though those claims made have only one culprit to blame; the good times, now memories, shared strictly between my {*uhmmm*} “Tour Guides” and I. Be judge free and trust me that only if a connection was made, would I invite these lovely dames into my temporary sanctuary. But, when you mix loose alcohol abuse and the use of Allah’s name in vein, that safe haven loses its reign. Only after a consensual erotic wrestle may sovereignty be handed to the last one standing or limping.

So, at the end of my Indonesian holiday the front desk clerk says with a smirk, “I see you have enjoyed your stay.” I giggle and he then strikes me hard with the bill and comments, “Sir, we require some reimbursements.” I solemnly say, “Ok, let me have it, what’s the damage?” He then holds up a tablet with images of the aftermath from what looked like a contained tsunami. He swipes through forensic scenes of debauchery and reads off a list “2,280,000 rupiahs, for the broken coffee table, the chair and sofa that was dowsed in squirt soda, bed sheets with no fix from spilt bloody mary mix, emotional distress caused to the neighboring guests.” I stop him from finishing off my list of sins and blurt out “Ok, ok. Let me just pay, so I can be on my way.”

“And will this be charged to your card?” He questions my payment.

I stare at him smiling and say “Nah, Is cash okay?”

I’m Kiss, Drunk Me

{“Ouch, don’t pull so hard”}

Excuse me miss,

but I’m currently a drunken mess.

Dismiss the distress caused by my intoxicated grip.

I’ve taken one too many sips,

so please don’t be jaded at how I’m severely faded.

Your every kiss is sweet like mangoes, picks me off my feet,

when our lips get tangled in a tango.

Our mouths dance, I’m left in a trance,

speechless, only able to communicate with my hands.

Fingertips grazing your seductive hips, I’m lit, smiling at your biting lip.

Excuse me miss, but we must try this again. Sober.

So, I’ll wait for that text to ring, asking to meet thee over by the shaded swing.