The Perpetuality of Booze

Getting over artist's block is like getting drunk--it might give you cancer.

To keep me from spilling,
the world set a cork in my mouth
and they called it “common decency.”

But now that I’ve shut myself up,
I can’t get me back out.
Every night, my fingers tug. They make
little microruptures in themselves
before they sigh
and I set me back on the shelf,
packaged and bottled up.
Here,
lying in my bed of dust,
I’m another “masterpiece” mass-produced
by somebody else with a plug.

One afternoon
when I was solemn and brooding and needed a drink,
I pulled too hard,
splashing and fizzing everywhere,
and I drowned in the intoxicant
of free thought.
Pouring drinks didn’t last long
‘cuz I kept missing the cup,
so I gave up
and just dumped myself right into my mouth.
The river of me was endless,
but it was cheap hooch made in the bathtub,
half fermented,
half asleep.
Wasting myself, unmitigated,
on the absence of mitigation,
I wiped out on the ground to take refuge from the flood.

When I woke up,
my inebriating blood was all across the kitchen floor.
I took a taste and said,
“Nah, this won’t do.”
So I shut myself up
so I could cultivate a bit longer.

I just can’t get myself open.
Ya see, I’m a glass,
ornate and perpetual, reflecting in myself
like I’ll never end,
the whole of a personal eternity to pour my universe out.
What’s inside
will always have a chance to flow.

But every bottle can--
will
--break.
And when it does,
the finest of wines,
essence of a universe
of red and white, sweet and silver,
will only be
a spill.