On being a drunk



Tuesday morning

the slender stem of a glass that

gathers vision in a cluster of light.

Our perspective is backwards and upside down.


The stem blossoms into an elegant cup,

which is packed with smoke stacks stacked to brim and

we are the white clouds

of breathless breath billowing from bedrooms in winter.


Our rim is clouded over and our vision of

freedom is unclear–

a sip to release our relentless aromas

a sip too many and our elegance recoils;

a rancid racket recalls our intentions and

drowns the waning sound.


If I could transcribe our living manifestos,

the incessant prayers we use to call to the wayward

–those practices of pressing on–

I would say things I don’t mean and can’t believe,

such as:


We are the silhouetted construction of a church.

We are the permeating blue of a dusk that slowly twilights.

We are the first signs of spring.

We are the static charge between hearts and the first touch of a lover.

We are Freudian slips of sunlight on a morning train

caressing the faces of strangers.


And the rain that breaks the heat wave and

the runoff of reveling and

all the twisted light of reflections.