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.

SP 1.15.10

blue rogue