March 11, 2011
I told you the story about how I stepped
over broken glass. The macabre fascinates
your senses rarely stimulated
by similar spectacles
in your own white-washed world.
To pursue this career
of moderation, you dole out
graces in shot glasses, small doses
since your undivided attention
is a straight-up affair devoid of nuances.
I, the fool, tried to take it
and ended in a conflagration: burn
patches in my throat, a flare in my gut
but careful never to spill
a single drop. I wonder if you always
taste like distilled violence.
Perhaps this longing is why
I see you behind the bar bathed
in--rose quartz. Colored
glass can easily shatter
and you've made it clear that
money and wits and ponderings
of love-lost drunks
cannot draw you away from these
rows of expertly bottled platitudes.
A dash of sympathy,
stir in a solemn smile and
you have a drink for that soul
by the darkest corner
gazing at you--my benediction
slaking this thirst for something pure.