On being a drunk

Tuesday morning

slender stem of a glass

gathers vision in a cluster of light.

Our perspective is backwards and upside down.

The stem blossoms to an elegant cup,

which is packed with smoke stacks and white clouds.

We are the white clouds

billowing from bedrooms in winter.

The rim is clouded over

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

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

Rain that breaks the heat wave

The runoff of reveling

All the twisted light of reflections