My mother should have been
worried
when I brought home
Stranger in a Strange Land
but
her missed clues came earlier
and by the time
"free love"
entered the picture...
she would have been too late.
(Good thing I'm not a hippie.)
After just a few years
of addiction
alcoholism...
and the seeds,
implant-ations,
brainwashing
of what could be considered
rehabilitation,
I still write better
(or feel better writing)
when I'm drinking.
Am I delusional
or, more appropriately,
falsely comforted
by
Kerouac
Thompson
and Bukowski's
literary longevity?
As loss, pain and loneliness
are fellows to the drunkard
the malady
may be
the muse.
What more irony
than that
the human condition,
and the consequences
of the self-focused
would lead
to the prosperity
of posterity?