I'm a poet who drinks only red wine.
When inebriated with earthly
delusion and desire, I crawl inside
this empty bottle of 19 Crimes Red Wine,
lone wolf, no rehab needed, just confined.
Here, behind brown tinted glass
and a hint of red stain, I can harm no one—
body squeezed in so tight, blowing bubbles,
hidden, squirming, can't leap out.
My words echo chamber, reverberating
back into my tinnitus ears.
I forage for words.
Search for novel incentives.
But the harvest is pencil-thin
the frontal cortex shrinks and turns gray.
Come live with me in my dotage.
There are few rewards.
My old egg-beater brain is clunking out.
I lay here, peace and quiet in prayer.
I can hardly breathe in thin air.
I'm a symbol of legacy crumbing
stored in formaldehyde. Memories here
are likely just puny, weak synapses.
"I'm not afraid of death, I just don't
want to be here when it happens."
Looking out, others looking in at me.
Curved glass is a new world intangible dimly defined.
I no longer care about cyberspace, uncultivated
wild women, the holy grail of matrimony.
I likely will never write my first sonnet
with angels; I only fantasize about them in dreams.
Quiet in osteoarthritis pain is this poet
who only drinks 19 Crimes Red Wine.
*Quote by Woody Allen.
Comments