Drunk Dreams

 

Star swarm
Relative anxiety
Pretending to pretend to
not care anymore
Instead we laugh, drink
and dine our nights
away in glitter splendor
and wine, half-drunk
is not really drunken
unless you can smell it on your pores

Discursive thought pattern
in a well of smoke
It tells you to shut up
and then it laughs at you for thinking
thoughts about yourself
and you think you’re surely crazy
so you think and drink some more.

Handle with care.
Do you see how you’ve fallen?
It’s in just such a way
that meditating on starlight is
not enough for our eyes tonight

Kiss me and make me feel the stars again.

Why can’t I get you out of my head
when you’ve gotten so out of my life
that I can’t remember if yesterday was a year ago or today
And every time I think of stars
I think of you and the wine
and you’ve ruined time for me

Where do you go when you’re dead but living?
What do ghosts smell like?
Apothic red and haunting moonlight
My drunk dreams are cheaper than you

I’d drink from your cup any day,
anytime, and never all at once.

What the fuck was I talking about when I accidentally told you I love you?
Accidentally on purpose I decided you were my tomorrow
and hung my wedding dress on the cobweb cabinet shelf of my mind
and you
Decided I was yesterday
and never, all at once
You’re always to me
Always, always

and I can smell you on my pores.

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A Romanticist’s Dilemma

We hear it as children –
Our mother figures asking our sister figures
whenever they meet any man,

“Oh, does he have a job?
How long til ya married?
How many grandchildren are you gonna give ya motha?
Oh, honey,
booby,
how big is his

paycheck?”

But I didn’t have anyone to ask me those questions
so now I ask the questions:

Does he move you like a song?
Do you look at him like a piece of art with a reverence for the human spirit and gasp,
“Something created that?”?
Does he fill your mind like that line of impossible prose
too beautiful to write down or ever share
so you keep it locked up in your head
or around your neck
in that locket he gave you for your sixteenth birthday
that became too heavy
and tarnished with
memories and false premises
so you had to take it off
and now
you don’t even really remember what it looks like?

I’m a poet,
I’m a writer,
so it only seems natural
that my list of romanticisms
become a poem
or a novel
or my next
mistake.

Is it the curse of my father I’ve been looking for someone to save?

Is someone going to save me?
Is someone going to save me?
Is someone going to save me
from this laundry list –
my standards for love that have me doubled over,
chained,
tortured
by my own impulses?
My attraction to alcoholics,
addicts,
lost spirits?

The wine is sweet when you don’t know what you’re drinking.

I’m drunk on emotion and I’ll savor every last drop.

Is someone going to save me?

I’m a poet,
I’m a writer,
so it only seems natural

and I find it cathartic
to be grabbed by the waist
and pulled into the lips of a man who has never tasted serenity,
emotional sobriety –
Their taste is all to familiar to me;
I fall into them like a trap.
Gets me every time.

Is someone going to save me?
I’m drunk on emotion and I savor
every
last
drop.

EJZ 04.23.2015