a poem i wrote, drunk.

i believe, i may have figured something out. i hope it makes as much sense to you, as it did to me when i found it in my pocket the next morning.

 

i am not

a literary laureate

i am not

a nobel prize winning author

i am not

a member of mensa

i

am

a fool,

            but i know my words hold water.

 

i know my thoughts

however muddled

by drink

by smoke

by desire

are perfectly clear.

 

thoughts fueled with

alcohol

nicotine

faith

heart

grit

all i ever cared about that was lost.

friendship.

alienation

acceptance.

 

the universal truth,

that

its

all

bullshit.

 

however,

during

throughout

our pursuit

of this futile f*****g enterprise

naively called

truth          justice

        and

love           rage

        and

 

we are occasionally afforded

a glimpse over the hill,

on the horizon;

 

            between the ripples of the charles viewed from a crab apple tree,

 

of that perfect

unattainable

paradise.

 

on her lips, over the hudson,

i found printed,

the way back,

but I was lost in her eyes.

 

so it goes.

 

only strengthens our resolve.

 

thickens our brotherly

sisterly

blood

burns our veins.

scars our hearts.

 

we’ll keep staring over hills,

just above the sunset,

in between

beers

and                               love

ripples

 

paradise,

is believing

in something better

for us all,

and wishing it

to find her,

first.

Reviews

[KUFU]

A splendid piece!

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. applauds from the grave.

[Onyx Sky]

Drunken man, sober heart, leads to unguarded poetry..

[W.k.kortas]

Fine, fine look at those mini-epiphanies--those small glimpses of paradise--that we all have, and how we try to apply them or make them work in our ordinary, fully tangible lives. The language does a nice job of avoiding the high-flown and ornate, and the pacing is...well, a bit three sheets to the wind, which is perfectly appropriate here. Very fine piece of work.

[Logan Carryall]

Stop kicking my a*s with these awesome poems.

[Christel Grady]

Wow! I must say: not too shabby for a drunken poem! The real question is: could you read it the next morning? I've found my penmanship turns to little-kid-dribble after a few, and my thoughts make no sense to anyone but me! : P