A crystal brim,
of molten sand,
reflects the sin,
held in my hand.
The bottle top.
A bubbly fizz.
The gentle trickle,
loves first kiss.
But love has gone,
Or doesn't exist.
A burning throat.
No longer bliss.

On occasion,
I deemed a bottle,
a bit of fun,
a little trouble.
The occasions gone,
but not the bottle.
My hand is cold,
the neck I throttle.
A tiny tremor.
A gentle slur.
It's time to go.
I hit the curb,
I make a move,
trip and stumble.
Stagger home,
alone, lumbered,
The bottle follows.
It always does.
A crown of thorns,
cut with blood.

I beg it to go,
I implore it to leave,
The bottle laughs,
The bottle's me.
A drink in the morn,
or the afternoon,
the nights as good as any,
under the moon.
I'm an addict.
Addicted,
to feeling,
a little less,
of anything.

It's been a month,
I've got my chip.
The flasks gone,
from my hip.
The damage's done.
My heads a mess,
but maybe it's not,
quite too late to impress,
a sober sensibility,
upon me.

I drink ‘till I’m drunk
Trying to drown the pain.

Waking up when sober,
and after a really bad hangover.
I realize my mistakes.
So I do it all over again in order to forget.

Eventually the pain will be gone,
Eventually everything will be okay,
Eventually ill be nothing but a memory.

dedicated to all the better poets here...*


don't know much about a quatrain
don't know how to write a refrain,
surely could not compose a
courtyard elegy
maybe after
and still untilled,
I been buried,
'n checked out
the neighborhood competition...

as for limerick,
that is Dr. Seuss
and Ogden Nash's shtick
with whom, eye,
a believed descendant,
cannot compete...

Oh dear me,  
no ode node-ed within,
as for a pastoral,
kinda hard to feat,
where I live,
a pastoral is grass cracks
surviving under,
breaking through to the other side
of concrete and blacktop rulers

Maybe one of you
will haiku,
send us a senryu,
send off, see ya!

the doc once diagnosed
a severe case of inflamed iambic pentametery,
with antibiotics and a diet of Hamletery,
was cured most satisfactorily

this silly pen-man-sinking-ship
ain't capable of dat,
boy how 'bout
an epitaph
for a graveyard stone,
should be plenty of room...
as it will be plenty short...

all eye see and all eye know
is vignettes that birth in me
walking down the street,
that's my bread and butter,
my soul's delicacies...
and moments that recorded
here, for a posteriored posterity,
as noted in my all my living
testaments,
drinking and spilling the vin,
from the uninvented igniting vignettes
that consecrate and connect our
knowing each other though odds are
we will never meet...we can yet
drink together
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Don't know much about the French I took.
But I do know that I love you,
And I know that if you love me, too,
What a wonderful world this would be."

I like a little ***,
I like a little Coke,
I like a little Whiskey,
I like a little Dope.

I like a little Gin,
I like a little Wine,
I like a little Pill,
I like a friend of mine.

I like a little something to while away the time.
I like a little something to pacify my mind.

tequila
sliding down
quick, hot
and its taste
lingering in
the insides of my
mouth now
dancing inside
my body
and running
in my blood
like a marathon
racing to
the finish
only to get
me feeling
weak in the knees
tingling
and my mind was
once full of
stressed thoughts
creating
unnecessary pain
is now emptied
into the sound of
good laughs
and clanking glasses
whilst
drowning in the
music,
my body
swaying
in its rhythm
and my heart
sings where
people can hear it.
Did you hear it?
when I asked you
to dance?
when I grabbed you
by the hand
going with every
beat of the music?
when we smiled at
each other,
locked eyes
and I told you
what a great time
this was?
did you feel it?
did you feel
the way
I did?