I tinker with emotion's safe. Nylon stockings of a lyric hide my flesh but call it up. Judgment dandruff mixed with snow. The apple rots from inside out. For many years my only salve-- a shot glass with its line respected. God, I held that ether well like chlorine poured in swimming pools. Something snapped. Sheets went stale. Sad passed out, got stinkin' drunk. I was robbing myself without regret or knowing how much cache was gone. I'll tell the plain brown-wrapper truth: train wrecks on the rails of wine took semi-trucks and made them small like Matchbox Cars in Christmas socks. Pillbox words in stanza wallets take the heat I used to drink. Ghosts and cobwebs suck their breath from cloisters of my whittled bones. Belittled, befuddled, be agony's fire. For nearly twenty winter years, mints upon my pillowcase were bottles emptied for escape. I know I should have prayed instead, but God would surely understand how pain can rape a midnight mass. The pillar monk of crippled tides was sadly sealed off from wise. Crusoe on the cross of pain, I wonder wander courage caves. Sing Sing out of key but there. Shame sham concentration leads. Sober's closet sees the dark for what it is and somehow corners breaking light. Liquor's penitentiary was holding cells for "do not touch me with the night." by Janet I. Buck |
