Lust of the Lush
My cheeks rubricate especially with red wine,
then turning purple if I also eat pecans,
and my eye feels pressure, itching around the lids.
I predict a mild nut allergy. As the alcohol
opens my facial capillaries, so the nut elements
squeeze through the normally closed cells,
a reaction occurs. Only with pecans and red wine.
The wine helps me unwind. The beer too;
the booze. My cheeks rubricate, really,
because like a tapeworm, alcoholism eats
at my insides. My cheeks flush
like when receiving gentle brushes
of my wife’s breast against my lips,
my veins plump up when the blood rushes
as if hanging upside-down from a tree branch,
and my eyes bulge with the pulsating
lust of the lush. The two weeks I stopped
was easy once I got there. Those two weeks
topped my previous record of recent,
during which I swept and mopped,
cleaned the dishes, carpets and counters
as a metaphor for cleaning the poison
from my body. It allowed my cheeks to smooth
their bumps and rehydrate, lessening the threat
of enlarged blood vessels looking like tiny
exploding galaxies along the curvatures
of my face. Maybe I can make it through
“No Drink January,” maybe a bit more.
Angel Cloud
Running out of topics
I looked at the sky
brought up cartoons
we watched
where the baby chick
asked Mother Hen
why the sky was blue
It is that blue
which brings comfort
that familiar slate
bending behind
all the fields and buildings
the true big blue
Laughing at cloud shapes
like the ancients surely did
you pointed at one
looking like an alligator
I pointed at one
looking like Krishna
Then thought stumbled
into my childhood
how Jeff, Myles and I
would see demons
in the night sky
who descended
roaming our field
Shooting them
with our stick weapons
or stabbing them
or casting powerful spells
we successfully defended ourselves
the demons never harmed us
Saying a final goodbye
to our across-the-street neighbor
I wondered if Jeff
actually saw demons
or was just a good actor
then we moved cities
I didn’t see Jeff again
until the trauma wing
fifteen years later
when he came to offer Myles
his old battle-buddy
who had fallen
a final goodbye
You pointed at another cloud
looking like an angel
Under the Brush
On top the bridge, we were like Pooh
watching a leaf flow with the creek
out of view to the other side.
The empties were litter T.R. and I
found strewn under brush
near the rocks we used to smash them.
We didn’t care where the bottles
came from, or know why they were hidden
by a cautious public drinker.
We saw them as a target.
After filling my arms with heaving rocks,
T.R. grabbed the bottles and we trotted
to the top of the bridge, hiding
our ammo from the few cars which drove
past. Taking turns in the manner of children,
one would carefully toss a bottle
into the muddy flooded brown creek.
Studying its trajectory, the other
would account for the lightly tossing rapids
before running to the other bridge side
where the rocks awaited and waited in position.
He would take his one shot
within the few seconds of opportunity
before the bottle sailed to the creek’s end.
The shards we left are like dust
crushed from years of water rushing
over them, dust carved down like a canyon.
Most revealing of this memory
is that I never imagined I would be the leaver
of empties somewhere under brush.
