The Lush

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I only drink in poetry.

I get drunk on Scotch

in most poems I am

in. Liquid courage

with little slips of

reality fall from my

pen. I registered

raindrops on my

eyelids. I have a

huge distrust of

the past. My

conscious always

flicking back. I try

to sanitize it like

a mirror wiped

clean in my

favorite gas

station bathroom.

Drinking my imaginary

demon juice. I swallow

regret. I thrive on

the blessed mayhem

of the million words

that light up the dark

skies of my mind

Like Beethoven my

fist in the cloud

of nature’s fireworks

Like Poe and the moon.

I see its reflection in

the graveyard.

Nostalgic for things

better kept lost.

The conjugations of

dead verbs and words

to forget.

I drink falling mountains

in a field alone. My

words dissolve in the

mist but never the dew.

My poem is a prayer

of denial. The emptiness

of a stone Madonna

or a stoned Madonna.

A benediction to a rotting

tree that should have been

cut down years ago.

I take another drink.

Maybe in my next poem

I’ll sober up and praise

what is to become.

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