There's a miniature oil slick floating on top
of this orange-tinged cocktail that's more vodka than not
because not everyone knows how to wash dishes correctly.
I feel my face redden
at this memorable token of my current state of affairs
but the familiar high-pitched clink
of the ice against ice against glass
manages to lull the beast back into hiding
at least for the time being.
But let it be known:
I blame God for my drinking.
He's the one who gave me opposable thumbs
I just found a good use for them.
Your only argument could be
that I do it for the effect and not the taste.
And after a bout of said debauchery
I sat on the pot at home reading how Auden did it better.
The open window pissed me off
since it's oil season
so I closed it a little too enthusiastically.
The window caught
the edge of my roommate's shell-shaped soap dish
and sent it crashing to the floor
cheap porcelain shooting everywhere.
Another drunken shattered fumbling
to hinder the opposite sex.
I tiptoed back to the toilet
and swore I felt the white glass
piercing the soles of my feet
but in reality it was the pain of a phantom limb
amputated and cauterized a long time ago.
I use that fire-healing word now
because it's safer than love:
at least you learn your lesson the first time you get burned.
Chalk it up to another botched maneuver.
Fuck, I couldn't even smoke right today;
all the ashes kept flying in my face
and I'm pretty sure I swallowed a few in my car
on the way home from work.
"Work," if you even want to call it that.
For the last half of the day
I sat at our bar of choice
buying Johnny, my broke partner, drinks
the loyal alcoholic that I am
the faithful freeloader that he is.
He's got a wife and a mortage and kids.
I've got nothing
but jealousy.
He's even got me beat when it comes to
that illegal rite of passage into the typical blue-collar world
I'm being sucked into against my weak will.
But soon I'm sure, like him, the headlights behind me
on a paranoid drunk-drive home
will turn out to christen my path
by being accompanied by rollers.
Better judgment says I should take the two dents
on my rear bumper
that I don't recall acquiring
from two different nights
that I don't recall ending
as a sign that maybe I should stop
before the self-fulfilling prophecy comes true.
Until then, however, I'll continue to binge at the bar
from time to time during (Almost Slightly) Happy Hour.
After that costly ordeal with Johnny
I drove home
hammered
and managed to remember
to throw apples out for the deer
that another one of my coworkers is going to shoot
the one who's become my surrogate father
since mine disowned me a year ago.
It's unethical and illegal to bait deer
but it's no secret
that I'll take any father
or any meat
any way I can get it at this point.
Speaking of which
my stripper friend called late last Monday
asking me to come visit her at work.
I told her I couldn't because it was the middle of the week
but reassured her that I still had her toothbrush
from the time she stayed over a few weeks ago.
Christ, now they're the ones calling me.
If my former friends and lovers
could only see me now
they'd know that the last laughs are theirs
and the scabbed knuckles and empty bottles
are still
and will always be
mine.
(And why hasn't your old man called?
Because deep down
he knows you're on your way to becoming him.
The ice cubes are passing through your lips
as you kiss the cup and suck the temporary sanity.
Oh, come on, kid
finish the last few stanzas despite the vodka;
the spins won't last too long
the truth will help you sleep.)
Somehow this all comes down to one
OK, a few, but for argument's sake
we'll call it "One"
girl.
I'd been dreaming I pulled into my driveway
walked upstairs to my room
and saw her sitting on my bed waiting to talk.
Not necessarily smiling, not coming back
just acknowledging my part in her life
good or bad.
Something, I did something, right?
Affected someone?
Inspired an action requiring more energy
than that required to flick a fucking booger?
That's what all this has come down to one way or another.
When the hubcap she bought me
came off somewhere
I took it as one of those signs
and then when I found it again
five days later in a neighbor's yard, broken
I ignored the omen entirely.
I knew I'd be OK
just like I know now.
Because when I was done on the toilet
and finished reading that Auden poem far better than mine
I pivoted the ball of my foot over on my heel
and sure enough there was no blood on the tile.
Currently reading:
"The Rosy Crucifixion: Book Two, Plexus" by Henry Miller.
"The Selected Poems of W.H. Auden."
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